


Times of Reckoning

by i_penna



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:16:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 72,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23977330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_penna/pseuds/i_penna
Summary: The story takes place three years after the happenings in A Normal Life. Erik and Christine's family has grown. In addition to young Gustave, now an adolescent 13, they have a toddler daughter, Emilie with an other baby on the way. The issue facing them now is Phantasma and whether they will continue operating the park for both artistic and financial reasons.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 58
Kudos: 56





	1. Times of Reckoning

Times of Reckoning

_The carved mahogany throne serves its purpose. Cramped, but safe._

_Wait – what? The velvet blanket ripped away. Stay calm. Do not move. Heart beating wildly – blood pulsing in my ears – adrenalin rush. Do not vomit. Fight the panic. Friend…foe, it matters little. Slow breaths. Whoever did this must not know you are hidden here._

_Then almost unbearable noise – the thrum of their chant – destruction he can hear – no – the organ – screaming - being torn apart – dying as he would die if found._

_Why not let them take me? The loss of Christine is almost unbearable. Almost. Even with the life I have known, it was still life and parting with it is more difficult than imagined. Especially now. How odd._

_Stillness._

_The yelling and cursing ends. Someone waiting. The one who arrived first likely. Energy is not of rage or ruin, more curiosity. Little Giry?_

_Foolish child. Why is she here? Go away. My soul left with Christine._

_Am I even human now? More human? I cannot say._

_Alive. I am alive._

_Death avoided one more time._

_What a fool – crammed into a cubby dreaming of love and what might have been. Nothing was to be, I know now._

_Silence. Total._

_With some difficulty he extricates himself from the chair._

_Candles cast an eerie glow on the remains of the organ._

_A flash of blinding light – torches appear out of nowhere – the mob not gone after all. Why did I think I could escape? The crowd surges around him. Only the fire is visible._

_“Noooooo. No – not by fire. Not that,” Erik screams, struggling to escape the grasping hands tearing at his clothes, flames licking at his feet._

Rushing into their bedroom, Christine turns on the small lamp next to the door. “Erik. Wake up,” she urges as she moves to the bed, attempting to calm him while tugging at the bed clothes entrapping his body. After removing one of the two pillows pressing against his face, she is able to gather him to her. “You are dreaming.”

“Fire!” he cries, as his eyes pop open. Tears flow down his ruined face. He stares past her, continuing to struggle.

“There is no fire – that was years ago.” Her voice is calm as she rocks him, a gentle hand smooths his sparse hair. “It was a dream – one of your terrible dreams.”

Conscious, he focuses his eyes on hers, breath heavy in his chest – he rolls over to cough. “Not that fire.”

“Then what?”

Fighting to stem the recalled fear from gagging him, he gulps in air to quiet his racing heart. “I was back at the Opera House – hiding, as I did after you left. A mob came and destroyed everything – the organ was the worst – the sound.” He shakes his head before continuing. “In reality, I was able to gather my things – as you know…in the dream, they returned with torches – so many torches. I was certain I was destined to burn in that hell I created.” He throws his arms around her, burying his head against her breasts. “It might have happened – why it did not, I do not know.”

“Perhaps you are not the demon you believed yourself to be.”

“You, of all people, should know how others felt. You yourself were fearful.”

“I never hated you.” Her tone stern. “I will always regret my part…”

Recovering his composure, he says, “But playing your part enabled us to sing my music for the world – never had I experienced such desire…dare I use the word now? My inner passion was made manifest. You lit a fire within me – as a man, not just a composer with an avid imagination.” Kissing each of her breasts, before sitting up, he grins at her. “As you continue to do now.”

“You are a beast.” The aquamarine eyes gleam at him. “I must confess, as a woman, that heat reached me in a most surprising way.”

“Both our wishes have been realized – the timing was not what we may have hoped, but here we are.” One of his hands cups a breast he recently kissed.

“You seem to forget I am likely to give birth at any time.”

“When has that stopped us?”

“You think I am attractive – so large and uncomely?”

“I know not the woman you are describing. You are my Christine. My wife. My love. You are perfect in every way.” His other hand strokes her belly, circling the child-to-be to caress the part of Christine’s body where the baby began.

Christine slaps his hand. “Not now. You likely roused the entire house with your screams and I would not be surprised if Gustave will come running in here shortly. He is already overly curious about our private moments, he does not need to see one.”

Erik flops back on the bed. “Very well, but we have managed much in very little time in the past.”

“I am pleased your mood has changed. You never told me what happened after we…I…left. I only knew what Raoul told me…about the body. Then, well…I found you…on the roof.”

“Still haunted – both of us.” He manages a low chuckle, relaxing into the pillow so recently suffocating him.

“You must have been terrified – I am glad I now know.” Her fingers return to carding the graying hair – better kempt than in the past, thicker, thanks to her treatments and insistence he not wear a wig all the time. A habit of hers he has come to love. “Another piece added to the puzzle that is my Angel of Music.”

“Harrumph,” he grumbles. “Some angel.” Removing her hand from tending to his hair, he presses his lips to her palm. “I never wanted you to know – I suppose I deserved what happened and am grateful a bad dream is just that – a bad dream.”

“I am sorry you were frightened.” Resting her head on his, she gathers him closer.

Christine, his wonderful, beautiful Christine, here beside him. What a miracle. Thanks to her, his nightmares essentially stopped when she reentered his life. Why should they return now and with such clarity?

The sound of sirens pierce the stillness of the night.

“Perhaps those are what made you dream of a fire,” she says, continuing to pet him. “The sound woke me about ten minutes ago – I went to check on Emilie – when I returned you were tangled in the sheets, crying out.”

“She was all right?”

Emilie, his daughter – _his_ daughter – takes after him – sleeping fitfully, waking from almost any sound. Were such things inherited? Watching her grow and develop is both wonderful and terrifying. Gustave’s persona was already well formed when he entered Erik’s life – so he was unaware of how children developed – how much was brought with them from another life – if the idea of reincarnation was true. How much came about from their parents or in the way they were raised? His fascination with the toddler was endless. Hours spent simply watching her – asleep, at play, eating, forming her first word…Ma, which soon became Maman. _Papa_ came much later – after hours of his coaxing and coaching. Taking her first steps. Each accomplishment a miracle in his eyes.

Despite their love for Phantasma and the accommodations they created for themselves at the hotel, when Christine became pregnant again – the decision was made to buy a real house for their growing family – and to enable Gustave to receive more traditional schooling. Their goal always to create a normal life for him and the new baby…a child with extremely sensitive hearing.

Born healthy, but with similar scarring to Gustave’s, the red rash on her cheek disappeared after a few months. Erik’s guilt was slower to dissipate, if it did at all, despite Christine’s assurances that the slight deformity did Gustave no harm and it would not be an issue for their daughter. At the age of two, Emilie’s dark beauty gave truth to those early predictions – including an inarguable physical resemblance to her father – few Swedes have black hair and golden eyes.

The success with Emilie’s birth gave them the courage to try for another child – the child Christine carries now. Her movements growing slower daily with the lateness of her term, the baby due in less than a month if the doctor’s reckoning is correct.

“Ten minutes – and more sirens now. Why so many? What could be burning?” Kissing Christine’s hand, before releasing it, he moves away to slip his legs over the edge of the four-poster. After sliding into his slippers, he rises to walk to the window facing south toward the ocean.

Christine follows, adjusting the lavender silk dressing gown around her swollen belly. She takes his arm as they both attempt to examine the night sky through the second floor window of their Victorian. The view somewhat obstructed by the maple trees in the front yard.

“There is definitely something burning by the sea,” he exclaims. “The sky is red and black…the park _must_ be burning.” His eyes frantic again, he faces Christine. “Phantasma is on fire.”

The panic of his dream rises again. This _is_ the dream – Phantasma is as much part him as either of his children – in many ways, more, it was his entire life until Christine returned. Now it was burning. If he can save the park, he will. At the very least, he must deal with the staff, the artists – those who live here and those returned for the opening in just a few days.

Turning away from the window, he makes his way to the armoire. “I must go there.”

“You do not know it is Phantasma – it did not burn the last time.” Christine follows, placing herself in his path.

“Pure luck. The bastard who torched Steeplechase could have easily done the same to Phantasma.”

“Erik, all we have done for the past three years is update and fire proof every attraction.”

“That does not mean they cannot be destroyed – there are the people – people died in the last fire.” His eyes accept no argument. “Even if it is not Phantasma, it might be Dreamland…or Steeplechase again.”

Christine nods, moving aside so he can access the armoire.

The door opening draws their attention. “What did I tell you?”

“Papa, Maman – what is happening? What are all the sirens? I can smell smoke.” Gustave pulls on a flannel shirt as he speaks. Almost as tall as his father, his arms and legs still unused to their new length, brought on by a growth spurt during the past year. His light brown hair still tousled from sleep, stands out at odd angles giving him the appearance of a scarecrow. Members of the crew tease him about being the next Dr. Gangle. His retort to the taunts being: “I should be so lucky.”

“There is a fire by the sea. I am going to check on Phantasma…and the other attractions,” Erik says as he gathers his own clothes.

“I am coming with you,” Gustave says, leaving the room to head back down the hallway. “Wait for me.”

“No,” Christine calls after him as he races to his room. “You will not go.” Turning to Erik. “You cannot allow him to go with you.”

Erik takes her in his arms, kissing her on the forehead. “Neither of us will get hurt – I promise you that.” Releasing her, he says, “I must hurry.” Pulling on his oldest grey trousers, a night shirt used only for working around the house and a rough boiled wool jacket, he adds one of his older masks, a wig and a floppy felt hat.

“Of course…you must – but not Gustave, please.” She presses her fingers into his arms.

“He will follow me – better I know where he is. You know how willful he is – he is a young man…thirteen. Considered a man if we were Jews. We would be planning his Bar Mitzvah, Nadir would be vaguely annoyed, but still help arrange everything.”

Despite her own fear, she had to give him a rueful smile. “Why do you always have to come up with some distracting fact when I am arguing with you?”

“To keep you from arguing with me.” Kissing her deeply on the mouth this time. “Hold onto that, I shall return to fulfill my duty to you as a loving husband, I promise.”

“You had better – loving husband _and_ father,” she says, rubbing her stomach – an effort to calm herself as much as the baby roused by her mother’s movement.

“Gustave – where are you?” Erik calls into the hall. “We must hurry, if we are to be of any use at all.”

“Yes, Papa – here I am” As if by some strange telepathy, Gustave has chosen similar clothing to his father’s. Garments worn when repairing the new house, his own pants still stained with the green paint covering the walls of the new sitting room.

That he missed the first ten years of the boy’s life tears at him – making his time with Emilie all the more important. Time missed with his son and with his son’s mother. What a difference might have it made had he not left Christine on the rooftop of the Palais Garnier? Shaking off the regret – he returns his focus to the present. A beautiful wife carrying another of their children…the oldest child waiting for him to possibly save their shared love – Phantasma.

“If she is not already awake with all the commotion, you might rouse Helen. Prepare some sandwiches – in the event we need to bring people back here,” Erik says as he and Gustave run down the carpeted stairs to the foyer.

“Yes, of course,” Christine says. “We will make ready the guest rooms as well, just in case.”

“Maman? Papa?” Emilie’s voice is heard coming from down the hall. “I scared.”

“Go,” Christine tells Erik and Gustave, turning to tend to their daughter. “I am coming, little princess. Maman is here.”

“Kiss her for Papa and grand frere.” With those words, the two men leave, closing the heavy wooden door with the cut glass inlay behind them.


	2. Dreamland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nadir, Darius, Madame Giry and Meg arrive just as Erik and Gustave are leaving to help at the fire - not certain which park is ablaze: Luna, Steeplechase, Dreamland or...Phantasma. While concerned about what might happen to Phantasma, Gustave has another sort of dreamland on his mind.

No sooner do Erik and Gustave run down the steps of the red brick mansion, than Nadir, Adele, Darius and Meg pull up in front of the house in a poison green Matheson – Nadir’s pride and joy.

“Your timing is most excellent, daroga,” Erik says, eyeing the racy car, so out of character for the staid and conservative Persian. “Even in this dim light, the color is such to make one’s eyes ache.”

“You are simply jealous I was able to acquire the vehicle before you could put your mark on it,” Nadir smirks.

“Far be it for me to call any more attention to myself than I already receive. I have no need to announce my presence in an automobile so wildly colored, but one quite noisy as well,” Erik counters, grazing the hood of the roadster with his gloved hand. “Nevertheless, I am pleased, as always, at your presence.” He steps aside as Adele opens the door to step out.

“A gift – amazing how my timing tends to be when you are in need of my assistance.” Nadir continues as he holds Adele’s elbow, helping her shift in the leather bench to make her exit.

“My America Touring Car is far superior to your flashy vehicle – and would carry all of us quite comfortably – more so, I might think,” Erik says, offering his hand to Adele and, with a gentle tug, extricates her from the seat and onto the running board and then the street.

“But it sits in the garage, while mine already has the engine running and is headed in the direction of the beach,” Nadir comments. “I assume that is where you and your young double are headed.”

“I do hate when you are right.” Erik checks to see that Adele is steady on her feet before releasing her hand.

“Thank you,” she says, reaching back to retrieve her stick. Healing from the wound received at the pier, left her stooped and more dependent on the staff than in earlier days. The aristocratic face still full of pride bordering on haughtiness is drawn, witness to the pain she regularly deals with. The black eyes, however, are still lively and words sharp as always advising Erik she is still his match. “We shall assist Christine – in her condition and with only one maid, she will need help to prepare the house – I assume that is what you have planned – like last time although the hotel is virtually empty.”

Erik nods. “You are most astute, Madame. The only sane reason a person would buy a house with 11 bedrooms is having an excessively large family or needing housing for special friends after a devastating fire. The hotel will be there for any others, as need dictates.”

“You are already building a sizeable family – forget special friends,” Nadir grunts.

“To assume three children will manifest into 11 would be pushing my beloved wife to have me on the street or finding residence in your diminutive domicile.”

“Four bedrooms is quite sufficient for a middle-aged couple, Erik,” Adele intones sharply.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Erik replies. “Christine will be pleased to see both of you.”

Darius pushes the now empty seat forward, jumping out and offering his hand to Meg. Lifting her skirt, exposing a flash of leg above her bootlets, she smiles at the young Persian, giving him a brief hug before joining her mother, taking the elder woman’s arm. The suffering marring her face after the shooting has softened into a face that understands regret, but is alive with hope. No longer mimicking the heavy braids of her mother, a style she adopted during the early months after her breakdown, the golden curls are pulled back into a ponytail, tied at the base of her neck with a pink bow matching her plaid day dress. “Take care of Darius for me, Gustave?”

Gustave rolls his eyes. “Darius can take care of himself – but, I will stay close to him, if that is what you mean.”

“Still, I should like for you to stay close to him, if that is agreeable.”

The boy shrugs. “Fine.” Bending his head, he looks down and away. He wishes she would stop trying to be his friend. He forgave her and it made him uncomfortable when she fawned over him. Ever since that night, she has been nothing but kind – even Papa was cordial to her and he was the angriest of all. Still, when she smiles like she is doing now, he feels a softening in his feelings… and why did she have to lift her skirt that way?

“Thank you, I knew I could trust you.” The brilliant smile again. Blue eyes like sapphire gemstones.

Gustave begins doing a nervous jig, demanding in an overloud voice, “Are we going to the fire or just going stand here chit-chatting all night?”

“Patience, my young friend,” Darius says. “Here, jump in the back, we shall be partners.”

Meg laughs. “That is exactly what I mean.”

“Gustave is right, we are wasting time,” Erik says, assured Darius and Gustave are settled in the back, he climbs into the shotgun seat next to Nadir. “Ladies, we shall return as soon as we possibly can.”

Final waves are exchanged and the flashy sedan makes its way down the road facing the bay toward the Atlantic.

“Where do you suppose the fire started?” Erik asks.

“My guess would be Dreamland,” Nadir responds. “All gloss and glamour without any stability. Badly managed.”

“They were still making repairs on one of the major attractions yesterday,” Darius says. “I would not be surprised if Hell’s Gate went up first.”

“The last fire – in 1907, took down Steeplechase – much closer to Phantasma,” Erik says. “July 29th. Cave of Winds. Extinguished in three hours, but wiped out 35 acres. Thanks to my forethought and recollections of the Palais Garnier, Phantasma is surrounded with a man-made lake – an attraction, but also a source of water. Still…” The fingers of his right hand tap absently on his knee.

“We came to New York in 1907,” Gustave says. “I do not remember seeing any burned buildings.”

“By the time you and your mother arrived in September, George Tilyou, the owner of Steeplechase already cleared the burned area and had tent attractions set up with some of the new building started,” Nadir says.

“The construction took a long time,” Darius adds. “Seems to me like they are still adding more new attractions – the new construction could be a problem.”

“Something we will need to be concerned about…that is, if we still have a park. At least I postponed the opening a week, so most of our people have not arrived yet.”

“It was a good decision,” Nadir says.

“Still lost wages…”

“Better that then whatever a fire might deny them.”

“No sense in worrying about hypotheticals,” Darius says. “We shall know soon enough where things stand.”

After a brief silence, the adult voices drone on, highlighted by the sound of sirens, their whine growing louder as the car brings them closer to Coney Island. The men talk of what went wrong with Dreamland, if it was Dreamland on fire. Or if, somehow, Steeplechase was burning or Luna Park. Nothing ever seemed to go wrong at Luna Park…

Gustave turned all of it off. Slumping into his seat, chin tucked into his chest, arms folded, he stares blankly at the road as they drive from Bay Ridge to the place he loves most in the world. The place in danger at this very moment. The place he never wanted to leave for a new house. He loved living at the hotel.

His whole world shaken again after only a year when they moved following Emilie’s birth. The new life created by and for him after leaving Paris was contained there – from chef, who prepared his favorite foods – chicken pudding and root beer floats – to lessons with the Trio now gone. Within his short time with the strong man, master of ceremonies and little person – his English became fluent and only slightly accented. He could juggle, turn flips, dance and, most importantly, since Dr. Gangle was a real doctor, begin learning about anatomy. He missed those daily lessons, learning things the new school he was enrolled in would never be able to teach him.

These new classes were dull and dry and, if it would not have hurt his mother and disappointed his father, he would fail each class and be removed. Fortunately, he was skilled enough to excel with little effort and brought home report cards that had both Erik and Christine beaming.

His efforts paid off, in that Papa, simply Papa now, absent the Y, brought him into the business, encouraging his opinions and suggestions – teaching him architecture and giving him the opportunity to work on new attractions. He did not recall exactly when he dropped the Y, but there was no sense in retaining the tag. Raoul was a vague memory. As poorly as they got along, Gustave still felt hurt when the man who was his father for ten years chose not to inquire about him. As far as he knew, the vicomte did not communicate with his mother either.

He was old enough now to understand the situation between his parents was not the norm and something society frowned upon. A few of the boys at school whispered behind his back…whispered loud enough for him to hear…about the whore chanteuse and her bastard son. How she convinced a member of nobility to marry her, only to leave him for the mysterious masked man who operated the freak show known as Phantasma. Likely a freak himself, but a clever businessman, how else could he afford the mansion in Bay Ridge and send his son to one of the finest schools in all of New York?

If his mother was a whore, then all mothers should be wanton, was his opinion. Their mothers seemed to lack joy living under the thumbs of the officious men they called Father – always with eyes lowered in deference to those who smelled of cigar smoke and whiskey. None of the men were like Papa who would greet him with hugs and kisses. Instead they received perfunctory handshakes if the male parent touched them at all.

From the mothers, well, a kiss on the forehead was the most that could be expected – no joyful reunions with pats, pets, tousled hair and squeezes accompanied by numerous kisses all over his face. If Gustave knew nothing else, he knew he was loved and cherished by his parents – however evil they might seem to other people. And however embarrassing all the hugging and kissing was becoming.

It occurred to him that they must have loved each other very much back in Paris to disobey the rules. There was never a time when he could recall them not looking at one another with love, or speaking in gentle tones, sneaking kisses when they thought he was not looking. Then there were the noises at night coming from their room at the hotel, when he was supposed to be sleeping. Words would devolve into odd sounds, and it often seemed furniture was being moved. However, when he checked the next morning – the room looked as it had the day before.

His habit of hanging around back stage, soon educated him as to what the sounds indicated – the crew and actresses were not so private as his parents. This drove Gustave to his anatomy tomes and the top shelves of his father’s library for any books describing the physical acts between men and women he felt certain his parents were engaging in. His research also explained the urges tormenting him when watching and listening.

The new house put a stop to his eavesdropping. The mansion was large enough for him to have a suite – bedroom, study and bath – overlooking the back garden. His parent’s own suite was at the front, with a turret room reserved for Papa’s piano and composing.

What was written and detailed in the books offered no comfort – however normal his feelings, finding release in handkerchiefs and wash cloths seemed nasty and wrong. Once, when Helen came upon him in the laundry washing out several handkerchiefs, he mumbled some explanation about how he cleaned up a spill in his room and used whatever clothes he could find to clean up the mess.

Her quirked eyebrow suggested she did not believe him. She had to know – of course she knew. Face hot with shame, he rushed past her. In such a hurry, he forgot the wet linen in the scrubbing tub. After that, he washed the evidence and let the cloths dry in his room before tossing them into the hamper. It would take several months before he could look at Helen without blushing.

He wished he could talk to Papa about what was going on in his body, but worried he might be accused of spying on his parents. Truth was, he simply felt both ashamed and angry at these desires he did not understand and did not want to be experiencing, however good the stroking and ultimate explosion of sensation felt when he climaxed.

Did Papa have those feelings? What did Maman feel? Did they know how good it would be? Why did Maman like Papa better than Raoul?

When he asked about how they met, Papa told him bits and pieces, but some of it made no sense. She was a ballet student he met at the Opera Populaire and he taught her how to sing. It was never explained why Maman stayed in Paris to marry Raoul and why he left for America. None of the hems and haws fit in with his own sense of logic and balance. There was a larger story to be told, but Papa was not forthcoming and he doubted his mother would provide much more. Any time he even seemed to be approaching a question about their beginnings, she would divert his attention with a chore or a new cookie she learned to bake.

How then could he initiate a discussion about…sex?

Now he had Meg Giry smiling at him. MEG GIRY. She tried to kill him and his body was betraying that fact. _Why now?_ Slumping deeper into the leather seat, he crosses his legs – grateful he wears the wool frock coat inherited from his father.

Despite their initial relationship, Gustave liked being around her – she was so kind now, defending him against the boys at the park. Mostly, he felt that would be able to tell him quite a bit about his parents. Since the incident at the pier, Meg was a fairly regular presence at the house. Maman and she were friends at the opera and, from what he could see, found comfort in one another once again now. But there was never the opportunity to speak to her about what went on when they were all in Paris together.

This new development would put a stop to any thoughts about a private conversation. Damn it all. What else could go wrong?

“Gustave, did you fall asleep?” Erik calls over his shoulder. “You have hardly said a word.”

“I am awake, Papa, just thinking.”

“Not too hard,” Nadir chimes in. “If you are anything like your father, thinking might get you into trouble.”

“Better than having no thoughts at all, like some,” Erik responds. “I often wondered what you were thinking when you brought me to Persia with you from Russia.”

“Not that we would be spending our old age together, that is a fact.”

“What does that mean?” Gustave asks.

“Just that Persia was not someplace a person might be able to leave, once in the service of the Shah,” Darius answers. “I believe I speak for all of us when I say, we are all fortunate to be here now – even if it means fighting a nasty fire.”

“Papa?”

“When you are older.”

“That is what you always say – how old is older?”

“Not now,” Nadir says. “When this is over we shall have a dinner – just us men and I will tell you some tales of the Shah.”

“Daroga.”

“He is old enough to know some of the story,” Nadir say. “You are thirteen now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A man, for all intents and purposes...”

“Nadir.”

“…for all intents and purposes to learn something of what life was for you…for all of us,” Nadir insists. “Here. We are close.”

They are fast approaching bridge that would carry them to Phantasma, a parcel of 5 acres not scooped up by the larger Dreamland or Steeplechase, situated on either side, but sufficient for Erik to design an elegant, yet, particularly haunting experience for those disappointed with the usual fun park experience. Most of the attractions had a European and, therefore, exotic feel to them – the visitors remarking about feeling transported to a different world. Because he engaged more than the usual number of so-called freaks, a strip of land adjacent to the park itself was set aside for housing.

The heavy smoke lends a strange luminescence to the dark night. The coolness of the night when they left the Bay is completely absent. The air hot as deep summer, the smoke burns their eyes and clutches at their throats. Nadir guides the car to a space close to the Phantasma hotel just outside the barriers set up by the fire department.

“Do you have a handkerchief, son?” Erik calls over his shoulder.

The boy sits up straight, patting down his coat. “Handkerchief? Why should I need a handkerchief?”

“To cover your face.” Erik frowns as he removes a handkerchief from his pocket and waves it at him.

“I have my own,” he blurts out, fumbling in his pocket to pull out a large square of cotton.

“Why so jumpy? I understand if you are anxious about the fire.”

“I am fine. I just did not know why I would need a handkerchief?”

Erik gives the boy a quizzical look, then shakes his head. “Fold it into a triangle and tie it over your nose and mouth like this.” Removing his ceramic mask, placing it carefully on the floor, Erik ties the cloth mask over his face. “I would advise both of you to do the same.”

His words are unnecessary as Nadir and Darius are already creating their own protection.

All of them watch eyes filled with wonder and the reflection of the red, orange and yellow flames several hundred yards in front of them. Despite the destruction they observe, Erik breathes a sigh of relief.

The fire is indeed at Dreamland. Phantasma is safe. Thank god.

“Come,” Erik says, heading toward the fire engines parked along the edge of the lake. “Let us find out what help we can give to the people at Dreamland.”


	3. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adele challenges Meg's interest in Gustave. Erik, Nadir, Darius and Gustave arrive at the scene of the fire - each of them faces a major life challenge while trying to help. The Trio is present along with some new OCs.

Adele and Meg watch as the men disappear down the street in Nadir’s green car. “God speed to all of you. I pray our beautiful Phantasma has been ignored by the fire,” Adele says, taking a deep breath before taking the rail assisting the climb up the curved brick stairway to the front door of Erik and Christine’s mansion.

Meg takes her elbow. “Let me help you.”

“Better to stay behind me, in case I lose my balance – the railing and my cane should serve me well enough – so modern of Erik to have lighting in the garden.”

“We should have asked Nadir to drive to the back entry as he usually does.”

“The timing was perfect – Erik and Gustave just coming out the door. I can walk up a flight of stairs occasionally.”

Halfway up finds them on a small landing with a bench set into the landscaping. On a clear day, this is a perfect place to sit and look at Staten Island across the Upper Bay and Coney Island to the south. Thankfully the wind was moving away from them, even so, ash was visible looking much like a late snow.

“Do you want to catch your breath?” Meg asks, indicating the bench with her hand. “I cannot imagine they use this entry very often – even for guests – however well lit.”

“It makes a nice façade from the street – elegant, but withdrawn – much like Erik himself these days. A deceptive, welcoming look until you try to gain access.”

“I was under the impression you two had made peace – you have never said anything to the contrary.” Meg sits down on the bench, moving her skirt so her mother can join her. “Your marriage to Nadir must have helped.”

“The issue is more my making peace with myself. We two have yet to put the past entirely behind us – too much history.” Adele eases herself onto the bench, releasing a low groan as her body settles onto the bent wood. “Shall we just say Erik tolerates my presence and appreciates the knowledge I bring to Phantasma. He is wise enough to know I am a good manager…and something he himself is loath to do.”

“Yes,” Meg agrees. “That is my sense as well. I suppose I should be grateful neither of you had me arrested.”

“He would never have done that – he spent too many years of his life in one sort of jail or another – including the one he created for himself under the opera house. He also cared about you – ever since you were a little girl. I suspect we can both thank Christine for her influence – direct or indirect.”

“Ah, yes, Christine…always Christine.”

“You are still jealous, then?” Adele shoots her a look of disapproval. “Why can you not be happy with Darius – he loves you and would slay dragons for you if asked.”

“Let us just say I am still working on it,” Meg says, picking at the boxwood shrub brushing against her arm. “My therapist asked me much the same question when I mentioned the new baby to him – Erik becoming a father again. Three children – who would have thought he would have such a life after Paris and traipsing up and down the coast here in America before Phantasma?”

Adele’s eyes sharpen at her daughters comments. “You have to let go, Meg. It was never real – your feelings for him. You admitted that yourself – my god, you could not even look at his face. What sort of love is that? I hold myself responsible for insisting you set your cap for him.”

Meg laughs. “Oh, Maman, I am joking – can I not use an old ill to make a joke?”

“This is not something to joke about, Meg. I know I put you through ten years of hell – I am not certain much of it is forgivable, but please put Erik behind you, except as a benefactor and business partner. We have lost nothing financially – gained even…and we are both employed.”

“I rather like the new programs I have been performing – he promised to take care of that and he has. My career these past few years are what I dreamed they could be.” Meg sets her reticule in her lap and adjusts the bow tying her ponytail. “We made our peace and Christine and I are friends – I am grateful they have forgiven me. Gustave, too.”

“Speaking of which – what was that business with Gustave?”

“What do you mean?”

“He is a thirteen year old child and you were flirting with him.”

Meg stands up, offering her hand to assist her mother. “I was teasing him. He has forgiven me – he has told me so.”

“Leave him alone,” Adele says, pushing the younger woman’s hand away, using her can to help her rise from the bench. “Erik and Christine have given you a second chance – I suggest you not challenge them…Erik, in particular. You have no idea who you are dealing with, whatever your fantasies continue to tell you and however well you think you know him – I know both of you better.”

“Maman, you are being silly,” Megs replies, rising from the bench, straightening her skirt. “Let us challenge the rest of these stairs. I am certain Christine will be happy to see us.”

“You go first, I will follow you up.”

“You do not trust me behind you now?”

“I wish to take my time – just walk. This discussion is over – only remember what I say,” Adele says. “Whatever you may feel about me, I love you. You are my daughter and I failed you. I am sorry. What I say is out of love, whether you believe that or not.”

“My therapist will be pleased to know that.”

“I hope you tell him.”

“And Darius?”

“By all means tell Darius – he is your husband – give him your love and affection. Leave the past behind.”

“Loving him is easy. Leaving the past behind is not – the past is always present in each of our lives.”

“Do your best, for your own sake,” Adele says, her voice softening. “Continue with your new life. Please.”

“Mr. Y, I am so happy you have come,” Dr. Gangle says, catching his breath as he jumps off his bicycle. The apartments where he and the other members of the Trio live is at the far end of Phantasma, closest to the Dreamland warehouses.

“Slow down, what is the problem?”

“Mr. Bonavita – the trainer saw us and asked if we had room to spare for some of the artists and…”

“And?”

“Some of his wild animals – the sheds have burned and, well, we are the closest – they would not have to transport the animals too far.”

“They need our stables and warehouses?” Erik asks.

Gangle nods. Our farrier is already helping with the Shetland ponies – they have been blindfolded and brought to the stables.

“Of course – whatever they need.”

“I can help – I handled the Shah’s lions.”

Nadir frowns, shaking his head. “It has been a long time.”

“They need the help – it is something I can do…have done,” Darius replies, giving Nadir a hug. “I will be careful.”

“The animals are terrified, I can hear them crying,” Nadir replies, holding the younger man close, finally releasing him with a deep sigh. “Go. Allah be with you.”

“Hop on the top bar,” Gangle says to Darius. “We can ride double.”

“Where are Squelch and Miss Fleck?” Erik asks the master of ceremonies.

“Helping the little people – bringing them to the hotel and some of the empty apartments,” Gangle calls over his shoulder as takes off on his bicycle, peddling hard to return to Bonavita and what animals they might be able to save.

“That sounds like something we could help with. Back to the car,” Erik says.

“Papa, what about the other animals?” Gustave asks as a heart-wrenching trumpeting drowns out the overwhelming roar of the fire and the crashing buildings. “The elephant – that was Little Hip. Oh, Papa.”

Before Erik can answer, shots ring out, not just one or two but round after round followed by the cries of the wounded and dying animals.

“Why, Papa? Why are they killing the animals…the lions and bears – they are so beautiful,” Gustave cries, pounding on his father’s chest.

“It is faster, less painful than burning to death. They are actually helping them.”

“Helping them?”

“If they burn, that is torture. The gunshot is fast…merciful.”

At that moment, they start when a creature ringed with flame bursts through Dreamland's Creation entrance.

“That is Black Prince, Papa. His mane is on fire. Oh, no. He must not burn. He must not.”

Erik pulls the boy close to his chest, holding his face away from the wounded black Nubian lion.

Nadir and he, along with the rest of the spellbound crown watch in the near darkness as the lion climbs up the incline of the railroad. They can make out two men following the cat. Behind them are Ferrari, the owner, Bonavita, and two policeman.

“Shoot,” Ferrari orders, tears flowing down his face. “Shoot. Kill him. Give him peace.”

“Dear, God. Let him die swiftly,” Erik breathes.

More gunshots. It is over.

Erik wraps his arm around Gustave. “Let us continue on our mission to help Miss Fleck and Squelch. We can also check on the rest of our people.”

Nadir, takes Erik’s arm. “What about the incubator babies?”

“That is on the other side of the park, I doubt we could make it over there. They must have staff…and the Fire Department would take pains to rescue the babies…how many were there?”

“Six, I think – I know there were at least the triplets – Mr. Dicker who owns the hotel – they were his family,” Gustave says. “Dr. Gangle and I went to see the exhibition – Maman was pregnant again and we wanted to see what the incubators did.”

“And?”

“They are for babies born too early and they keep them warm and help them breathe.”

“Not really a side-show, but the hospitals would not allow them to be used and the family was desperate to save the children,” Nadir says.

“Real science, Papa.”

“Yes, real science. Something we must look into,” he says, tousling the boy’s shaggy hair. “For now, the fire department must be left to do their best with the fire – we need to help those who have lost their homes.” The three climb back into the car. Erik removes the handkerchief and replaces it with his mask.

“Why are you putting on that mask again, Papa?” Gustave asks. “The air is still full of smoke.”

“New people will find this mask more acceptable, I think,” Erik says, stuffing the linen square back into his pocket. “I will be fine now that the wind has shifted, but you keep your face covered.”

The totality of the destruction was hypnotic. Erik could not take his eyes off the blaze as they drove to the hotel. What might a fire might do to Phantasma, even with all the safety features added to each building. The fools at Dreamland were still using papier mache for many exhibits – thinking painting them white and red would somehow make them safe…if they thought at all about safety. The place was gaudy and cheaply made. The only good addition was a water system they installed, but appeared not to be working.

Erik never really took the time to visit Dreamland, only observing it from a distance – a visit to Luna Park told him all he needed to know about the upstart – reportedly copying every successful attraction the older more established park offered. That brief tour showed Erik much of what he did not want for Phantasma and what he could improve upon. Cheap thrills were not a part of the plans he drew up for his personal “dreamland.”

As they approach the hotel, they find Miss Fleck and Squelch, one seeming giant and one little person sitting on his shoulder, leading what appears to be a parade of her replicas – inhabitants of the Lilliputian Village – a _human zoo_ as it was described by some.

“Mr. Y,” Miss Fleck calls out. “Gustave, Mr. Khan, we are so happy to see you.”

“We are out of the path of the fire – with the wind turned out to sea, praise Allah,” Nadir says, bringing the car to a stop and jumping out. “Although now the pier is burning. Let us hope the fire boats can stay out of the way of the sparks.”

“Is there someone in charge of the group?” Erik asks.

“No one has stepped up – they were so happy to see us…” Miss Fleck says.

“I just said follow us and they did,” adds Squelch, setting Fleck down.

“You do have a presence,” Erik smirks, stepping out onto the running board.

Squelch and Fleck chuckle at the comment. “I suppose we do make an odd couple,” she says.

“To say the least,” comments Nadir. “Thankfully you found them.”

“They live in the village – they had nowhere to go.”

“We must get them organized and into shelter.” Facing the unruly crowd, Erik in his strongest theatrical voice, calls out, “Attention. Your attention, please.” Everyone stops in their tracks, the rumbling chatter of concern and fear quietening. “Groups – sort yourselves into groups – families in one, single men, single women. Are there any children without parents or any family?”

A young boy and girl stumble to the front of the crowd, nudged along by some of the older women. They huddle close together, holding hands, keeping their eyes lowered. Although he has no talent for assessing the age of children, it is often difficult to determine the age of little people at all, Erik assesses their age to be no more than six or seven. “You have no one?”

They shakes their heads.

“You come home with us. Gustave, get their names and take them over to Nadir’s car.”

Whatever is Christine going to think about Gustave bringing the boy and girl home – what can he be thinking? Still he cannot just let them stay alone at the hotel. Bad enough they were abandoned by their parents – no one claiming them, in any event. A tug in his chest takes him by surprise – tears flood his eyes. The visage of a striking woman with deep auburn hair and cold blue eyes flashes in front of him, then disappears. He shakes off the image of his mother. No time for allowing memories to distract him. Instead he conjures up Christine’s soft and gently beauty, her warm smile and that voice – speaking or singing – filling him with joy. How much his life has changed. Christine, his beloved Christine will make them welcome.

Nadir quirks an eyebrow, “Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course – the smoke…” Erik clears his throat and wipes his eyes with his handkerchief. “They need someplace safe – we have room. Helen is there, as are Meg and Adele. Gustave will help.”

“If you are certain,” Nadir says, smiling at the children. “Gustave, there are blankets in the boot – they must be cold without jackets.”

“Yes, sirs.” Gustave waves at the pair to follow him, making sure they are able to keep up with his long, leggy steps. “I am Gustave – that man in the mask is my Papa. You are coming to our house. Do not be afraid – we will take good care of you. What are your names?”

“Harry,” answers the boy, looking up at Gustave, revealing eyes of a blue so pale they appear to be silver. “This is Margaret, my sister.”

The girl follows Harry’s lead and glances up at Gustave before quickly looking down again, but not before he catches a glimpse of eyes the same shade as her brother’s.

“Well, come along Harry and Margaret – I will get you tucked into the back seat of Nadir’s car with a nice blanket – the air is getting chill again – when Mr. Khan is finished discussing matters with my father, we can go home.”

“Home? To our Mam and Pa?”

Gustave pauses to take in the wistful faces looking up at him – shyness exchanged for hope. Squatting down to meet them face to face, he takes their clutched hands in his. “No…to my home. To be with my maman. You will like her – she is very pretty and she will sing for you any song you like if you ask.”

The little ones exchange a look, then nod. “Yes, sir.”

“I am Gustave,” forces a chuckle, bouncing back to his feet, “not sir. Come along.”

“Yes, Mr. Goose.”

Gustave looks back at the boy, a genuine smile on his face. “That is what my baby sister calls me…Goose. That is fine, but just Goose…no mister.”

Glimmers of twin smiles cross their faces. “Yes, Goose.”

“How many people do we have?” Erik asks Miss Fleck.

“The ads say three hundred. My guess would be closer to one hundred fifty – perhaps two hundred.”

“I am not seeing a lot of grouping by family,” Erik says. “Why is that?”

“Most are strangers, coming together for the season – they partner up, but…”

Erik walks to the front of the crowd, still milling, unsure of where to stand. “If you are with someone, a lover, someone who is your friend…that is your family if you do not have one. Our intention is to keep people who love one another stay together.”

The grouping went much faster after that and it would turn out there was no one without a partner.

“What of those children?” Nadir nods toward the car. “No family…parents?”

“New – just arrived from an orphanage for the opening – twins. They do not know anyone here.”

Sighing deeply, Erik pats Miss Fleck on the shoulder. “You are a blessed woman, these people should be on their knees to you.”

“Then they would disappear, Mr. Y, we are quite close to the ground as it is,” she laughs.

“The hotel is virtually empty. Squelch – rouse the desk clerks – the ones who live here. Start registering our new guests. I do believe we shall have enough rooms for everyone now that they have sorted themselves out.”

“Most of the staff is here, Mr. Y,” Squelch says. They all came when they knew about the fire.”

“Good – get Chef and his crew to start preparing some simple meals. I am glad the hotel was prepared early for the arrivals expected next week.”

“What about the reservations, Erik?” Nadir asks. “I suppose Adele and I can deal with that tomorrow.”

“Perfect…for tonight and until we can work something else out, these people will have a home and food and safety.”

“Mr. Y…Mr. Khan!” Dr. Gangle calls out as he stumbles alongside his bike into view from the darkness. Darius is on the seat leaning against the lanky man, one hand holding on to the handlebars.

The three men run to the bicycle.

Squelch and Nadir take hold of Darius, allowing Gangle to crumble to his knees, struggling to catch his breath.

Nadir kneels down so Squelch can lay Darius onto his lap. He touches the younger man’s left arm contained by a makeshift sling. His fingers become sticky and wet from the blood seeping through the heavy wool. “What happened?”

“Mauled. My arm. Got too close to a mama lion.” Darius attempts a laugh. “I was rushing.”

“I applied a tourniquet, then wrapped it with his shirt and the linen cloths. I managed to stop the bleeding, but the wounds need to be cleaned and stitched.”

“Anyone else injured?” Nadir asks.

“No,” Gangle replies. “The animals are safe. We met up with Bonavita and two of his trainers. We had some lanterns and managed to get five leopards and four lions into movable cages. They are at the largest of our warehouses. Darius was wounded when we were placing them – she got him through the bars of the cage. It could have been worse.”

“Perhaps you should get those kids to my house,” Erik says, squeezing his friend’s shoulder. “Take Gustave – you can explain what happened to the women – they will be happy for the news, I am sure.”

Nadir nods, with tears in his eyes held back only by sheer will, he places a kiss on Darius forehead before surrendering the man who could be his son to Squelch. Taking the hand Erik offers, he gets back on his feet.

“I will be fine,” Darius says. “Do not tell Meg anything.”

“I have to tell her something,” Nadir responds.

“Might be best to wait until we know better what the situation is with his arm – just tell her he is helping with the little people for now,” Erik offers. “We might have a better idea about Darius’ condition when you return. Hopefully, we can move him then – much depends on the severity of the wound or wounds.”

“Do your best,” Nadir says, looking back at Darius once more before heading to the car.

“Of course,” Erik says. “Squelch, you and Dr. Gangle take Darius to the infirmary – I will join you shortly.”

Squelch nods and lifts the young Persian as if he was the size of Miss Fleck instead of a grown man. “Throw your good arm around my neck, then just relax. Gangle grab your bike – there has been enough loss tonight – we do not need missing bicycles.”

The thin man nods, and walks his bike behind Squelch toward the Infirmary.

“Miss Fleck, I think it best if I assist with Darius. That leaves you to make certain these new friends are taken care of,” Erik says, touching her shoulder. “Is that all right with you?”

“Yes, sir.” She smiles up at him. “Thank you for trusting me.”

“You saved them? Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.” Her tone rueful. “Some of them – those in the Midget City Fire Department – did their act of putting out a fire…only for real this time, but nothing helped. Everyone was running for their lives. When they saw me and Squelch waving at them, they just followed us.”

“Very wise of them,” he says. “I best go.” He squeezes her shoulder once more before following the path of Squelch and Gangle.

“I shall pray his wounds are minor,” she calls after him.

Without turning around, he waves his hand in the air. “Yes, do that.” His pace increases to a trot, then a run. “Pray. Pray for all of us.”


	4. Second Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nadir and Gustave tell Christine, Adele and Meg about the fire. Gustave breaks down awakening memories for Christine and opening new questions about Meg's interest in the boy. Back at the infirmary Erik, Gangle and Squelch address Darius' injuries.

“Gustave. Nadir,” Christine calls out, pushing through the conservatory door to the brick driveway where the green car stops has stopped – the Persian and her son, already getting out of the car, walking toward the house. Hands pressed against her belly – not fully covered by a heavy lavender chenille robe, she waddles, duck-footed in wool slippers toward Nadir, “Where are Erik and Darius?”

“Papa is at the hotel. Miss Fleck and Mr. Squelch helped save all the little people from Midget City and Papa asked Darius to help him get everyone settled and he sent us back to let you know so you would not worry,” Gustave blurts out.

Some of the anxiety pressing against her heart releases – her shoulders relax and she smiles at her young man. Just a few hours and the little boy who left on what he believed to be an adventure like something he read in a book, has aged in the reality of a true disaster. She opens her arms to him, and he runs to hold her as close as he can, standing more to one side than directly in front of her, careful not press too tightly.

“Maman…” His voice unsteady, whatever words he might say lost in the tears flowing from the hazel eyes.

“Oh, my dear boy.” Christine pulls his head to her shoulder. Perhaps her estimation of his manhood was premature – like his father, she supposes, he will always move back and forth between maturity and a childlike quality she finds irresistible. She rubs his back, whispering softly into his ear, “You are safe. You are home. I am here.”

Torn and distressed, he tells her of his experience, his voice rising in pitch and meter as the excitement is revisited. “It was terrible, Maman. The noise – everything was so loud. The fire had its own voice, different from the shouts of the firemen…and the animals dying. You know – how sometimes Papa’s music sounds when he is upset? So awful you want to put your fingers in your ears to make it stop.”

“Yes – I know that music well.”

She cannot help but smile at the boy’s reference to his father’s ability to translate emotions into music – particularly the darker feelings. After the night Gustave…and whoever else Meg might have wished gone – including herself – almost died, she would discover his demons drove him regularly to the Eyrie to vent on the grand piano, or less often, the violin.

One particular night was oddly balmy, even for the end of summer. Lonesome for Erik, wishing he was not so insistent about them living apart – her own need to vent the roiling combination of fear, anger, love and lust at war within her led her to seek him out – despite the late hour. This was an evening to share all those feelings with him – for him to share whatever wars were waging within his own heart with her.

There was no answer to the knock on his door, so she thought to find him outside. The street in front of the hotel was empty – the heavy traffic of that last night of the season absent with the exception of a lone figure in the distance walking toward, then turning into the theater.

So he was restless, too.

By the time she arrived in the private workshop, he was already deeply immersed in his melodies, if the chords and passionate phrasing could be described as a melody. The music was reminiscent of the most cacophonous elements of _Don Juan Triumphant_. Then, quite abruptly, the noise stopped.

“You are here,” he said, not looking at her, sitting completely still.

“Yes, I missed you,” she answered, as she joined him at the piano, standing behind him, draping her arms over his shoulders. Undoing the lacing of his poet’s shirt, she reached one small, soft hand beneath the fine linen to stroke his chest. Cupping a breast, she thumbed the nipple – as he had toyed with hers when they made love. Pleased at the immediate hardening of the little bud, she leaned over to nip his earlobe, breathing, “I have spent too many years missing you.”

A moan erupted from deep inside him. With what seemed to be a single motion, he shifted his position on the bench, and, before she realized it, had pulled her onto his lap. The golden eyes bore into hers, initially fierce…questioning…before creasing into a smile.

Christine removed his mask and brushed her lips against his, entranced as always with the soft thickness of the deformity, what a pleasant surprise it had been when she first kissed him. His were kisses she could drown in, for Erik never kissed her with anything less than his entire being.

The sharing of their lives truly began that night – the acknowledgement of combined grief and unspoken terror at what might have happened – their good fortune. The bond grew ever closer in those times at the Eyrie. Erik would play his improvisations and her voice soared – anticipating the notes. They sang together, cried, vowed to carry on – to never part again. To give their son all they could – materially, yes, but also as much of themselves as possible to ensure a happy life for him.

“So many died – the big, black Lion…you remember him?”

“Yes, I remember,” her voice quiet as she smooths the hair off his forehead. “He was so majestic…a real prince – that was his name, was not?”

Gustave nods. “Papa would not let me watch – they shot him. Over and over. They shot so many. Papa said it was merciful.” The hazel eyes plead for her to agree.

“Yes, it likely was,” she says. “Burning is a terrible death. The shooting would be quick. Neither death painless, but the latter kinder overall.”

“The elephant burned, Maman, I heard him.” His sobs increase, Christine holds him until he is empty of the pain – for now, at least. How she wished he had not gone, but Erik was right – Gustave was at an age when he had to explore the world – at least his father was with him. How much of this sort of thing had Erik known in his early life?

“You were very brave.” Pressing her hands into his shoulders, she pulls him forward to kiss both of his tear-stained cheeks. “I am so proud of you.”

Gustave steps back, his face flushed red – using his sleeve he wipes his eyes.

“Where is your handkerchief?” Christine asks, handing him hers. “Here, use this. Your clothes smell of smoke and must be filthy.” Her smile is wide as he gingerly takes the lace-edged square of fine cotton, pressing it to his face.

“This smells so good, Maman – like flowers.”

“Jasmine – your Papa’s favorite.”

“I like it, too.”

The moment shatters when Meg runs up to them, pushing past Christine to throw her arms around Gustave. “I am so relieved you are safe.”

He freezes at her embrace, eyes blinking wildly. Stumbling back, he frees himself from her hold, giving her the answer to a question she fails to ask. “Darius and Dr. Gangle helped move some of the lions and leopards to one of our stables.”

Christine’s lips turn down as her eyes shift back and forth between her son and her friend. Although she and Erik surrounded him with love and affection, he fought to resolve the fear himself as well. Nevertheless, any time Meg’s name came up in conversation, he flinched. He forgave her – but her attentions found him uncomfortable and awkward, particularly if she touched him.

Eventually a state of normalcy evolved. Although Erik never quite understood Meg’s feelings for him, he felt responsible for not being aware of what she was doing to help Phantasma succeed, and did not want to exclude the Girys from his life. Meg and Adele would always be taken care of financially and, over time, a sense of family came into being.

For her part, Christine enjoyed talking about the old days – Meg was the only girl friend she ever had and their silly gossip about Sorelli and Jammes cheered them both. If Meg came to the house or her dressing room more often than Christine found entirely comfortable, she was still encouraged to see Meg heal. The marriage to Darius and a series of acts Erik built around her, more suitable to her dance training, had Meg cheerful and seemingly happy with her life.

This interaction with Gustave, however, left Christine oddly disturbed – the physical attention was clearly inappropriate, and why was Meg not concerned about her husband?

“Did they?” Meg says. “I recall Darius saying something about lions and Persia. He would want to help – he is always wanting to help someone or something. If he was Christian, some would call him a saint.”

“What happened?” Adele asks. Struggling as much as Christine in her own way, navigating a body no longer young – damaged from the career she loved as she never loved anyone or anything else. Once magical feet were now her curse.

“Darius and Gangle helped rescue some animals. They stayed behind to help Erik and the staff settle the little people in at the hotel,” Nadir says, striding to take hold of Adele, kissing her hard on the lips, until she pulls away – maintaining a loose embrace.

“It was that bad?” She asks, her brow furrows with concern. “Your kisses are very telling, my love.”

“The entire place is gone – all gone…so quickly. I knew that many of the attractions were made from papier mache…and they burned like paper…poof.” His body more than reflects his words – shoulders slumped forward and a sense of fatigue in his movements.

“But everyone is all right?” Meg says. “No one was injured? Why then do you look like death, Nadir, holding onto Maman as if you are drowning.”

Nadir sighs. “Darius suffered an injury, I do not know how serious,” he says.

“Darius injured.” Meg gasps. Turning to Gustave, she barks, “You said you would watch over him.”

“What are you talking about?” Christine says, holding an arm out to prevent Meg from getting too close to Gustave. “How could a thirteen year old boy watch over a thirty year old man?” To Gustave. “When did this conversation happen?”

“Before we left – sh…she asked me to look after Darius. I…I said what you did,” Gustave says, standing behind her, taking hold of her hand. “H…he could take care of himself. Sh…she said she was t…teasing me.”

“Meg, you are being ridiculous,” Adele joins in the argument. “I thought we discussed this.”

“They were supposed to watch over one another,” Meg insists.

“And we did,” Nadir snaps. “If anyone needed watching over, it would have been Gustave – who acted quite admirably, I might add. He took care of the two dwarf children from the Dreamland attraction who have no family. Erik wanted them to be in a safe environment. They just came from an orphanage, from what I understand.”

“Their names are Harry and Margaret,” Gustave adds. “They are twins and scared. When I told them I was taking them home, they thought I was returning them to their parents.”

“Poor little ones. Let me see them,” Christine says making her way to the car, turning away from Meg.

“In the back seat,” Gustave tells her, still holding her hand. “They fell asleep during the drive back, I did not wish to waken them if they were comfortable. They were so scared.”

Gently lifting the green plaid blanket that covers them, her face lights up when she sees two sets of silver eyes looking up at her from their cloth cave. “Hello, my name is Christine. I understand you are called Harry and Margaret. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“You are Goose’s mam?” Harry asks.

“You call him Goose?” she laughs. “That is what my Emilie calls him.”

They nod in unison. “He told us.” The barest hint of a giggle is heard.

“Yes, I am Goose’s _mam_.”

“He said you were pretty and would sing to us.”

“Well, I do not know about being pretty, but I would be happy to sing to you,” Christine answers. “Perhaps, we should go into the house where it is warmer and you can get more comfortable…and maybe have some food.”

Margaret says her first words since leaving the park, “I am thirsty.”

“Then that settles that,” Christine says, turning to Gustave. “Come, son, let us get these babies into the house. We need to find some clothing for them – all of you smell of soot and fire. Maybe some of your older garments for Harry – check the boxes Raoul sent from France, there might be something appropriate for a young man of Harry’s stature. I do believe some of the new things we bought for Emilie might fit Margaret.”

Nadir and Gustave lift the children from the back seat of the car. “Can you take care of this from here?” Nadir asks. “I should be going back for Erik and Darius.”

“Of course,” Christine replies. “Tell Erik all is well with us and we cannot wait to see him back home.”

Meg runs up to the car, getting into the front seat. “I am going with you.”

“Is that such a good idea,” Nadir argues, looking at Adele, a plea in his emerald eyes.

“Regardless of how good or bad an idea – Darius is like your son, but he is my husband and I want to be with him.”

“Let her go,” Adele advises. “This is the first interest she has shown about him all night. I do not wish him ill, but maybe if he is hurt, she will finally grow up.” The glance at her daughter is sharp.

Meg simply stares forward.

“Very well,” Nadir says. Starting the engine, he gives Adele one last, long look before turning the car around and guiding it down the driveway.

“Come back soon.” With that Adele hurries as best she can to catch up with Christine.

Helen meets them at the leaded glass door leading into the conservatory. The maid, a pretty fifteen-year old, dons a blue chenille robe, similar to Christine’s, long brown hair in a single plait hangs down her back, questions Christine with her wide-spaced brown eyes.

“These youngsters are Harry and Margaret,” Christine says. “They will be staying with us. I think a room with a bed where they can sleep together. The room next to yours, I think…downstairs, so they do not have to deal with stairs – and Emilie will not be disturbed. She is still sleeping?”

“Yes, missus. The warm bottle and Teddy finally settled her. I looked in on her before coming downstairs just now.”

“Good. Too much excitement, I fear,” Christine says. “Back to the twins – a bath would be nice, they are all sooty – I asked Gustave to find some clothes for Harry in his closet and some of Emilie’s new things for Margaret. Before bathing, though, I think maybe an egg, some toast with butter and jam, and a glass of warm milk…” Looking down at the twins, she adds, smiling, “…sweetened with chocolate syrup.”

“Yes, I shall take care of them.” The petite girl bobs a curtsey, then bends down to introduce herself. “I am Helen. Master Gustave and I will take care of you. I can see you are frightened and all of this is very strange, but you are safe, I swear.” She crosses her heart before holding out her hands, the twins take one each and follow her to the kitchen. “Do you like eggs?”

“Helen makes very good eggs,” Gustave says, following them down the hall.

Waiting for the children to be out of earshot, Christine turns to face Adele, who has taken a seat in one of the cushioned chairs, upholstered in pale green brocade. The conservatory is decorated in shades of green with touches of peach, lit by a pair Tiffany lamps, each of a unique design. “I am sorry, I must sit down.”

“And I must join you,” Christine manages a short laugh, lowering herself onto a straight-back chair. One of a pair on either side of a carved mahogany game table placed in front of the floor to ceiling bay window looking out on the garden. “This child grows heavier each day. Of course, I have said this with each one as they came to term. One just forgets and I am older now.” Once settled, she cocks her head at her former dance mistress. “What is this business with Meg and Gustave? I sense it goes beyond her _teasing_ him tonight about looking after Darius.”

“We both know Meg and I are not on the best of terms.”

Christine shrugs. “She has not been the same since the shooting. I know that. When we are together, things are still strained despite both our efforts. I feel some responsibility for her breakdown.”

“She has not healed. It is as simple as that,” Adele sighs. “I hoped her marriage to Darius would help – he does not see her as we do.”

“Of course not, we knew her when she was a young girl.”

“He is also in love and we both know how love affects us,” Adele chuckles, then turns serious. “I must be blunt.”

“When have you not been blunt?” Christine smirks.

Adele nods her head at that truth. “I, too, am concerned about her interest in Gustave.”

“Yes, tonight was the first time I saw them together,” Christine says. “He is at an age when…well, boys…and girls are developing an interest in the opposite sex.”

“So you are aware…”

“Both his father and I are fully aware of his newer interests,” Christine laughs. “I was _not_ aware of who might be the object of this interest. I find it troubling and I do not think Erik would be pleased with what appears to be Meg’s effect on him.”

“I have spoken to her, but I may need to make a stronger stand.”

“Or I will,” Christine says, rising from her chair. “Let us find out the situation with Darius before making any decisions. I am concerned he has been badly injured. Would you agree?”

“Yes,” Adele says, following Christine’s lead, rising from her chair with the help of her cane. “Nadir is very worried. Darius is like a son to him and he is frightened. I have never seen him so upset.”

“Well, all we can do is wait for now,” Christine says, pressing her hand against her back. “Tea might be welcome, I think and some of that toast and jam.”

“Thank you,” Adele says.

“For what?”

“For not blaming me.”

“About Meg?”

“Yes.”

“She is her own person, Adele. At some point a person has to make their own decisions about what they want their life to be. At one time, I would have said, yes, you created a situation for her that was very damaging – but her life has changed since then.”

Breathless, Erik pushes through the door to the small surgery set up in the Infirmary. It seems just the day before they were gathered here to remove the bullet from Adele’s side the night when Meg had her breakdown. The bullet managed to land in a place that blocked entry to any major organs. While it affected her already challenged body, she was alive and they were able to keep the police out of the situation.

That was also the night Nadir returned to his life with his young friend, Darius, reawakening his memories of Persia, but also renewing a friendship, such as any he ever had, with the man who both brought him into his bondage to the Shah, but also freed him. In that other time, Nadir hoped he might help healing his son, Reza. While Erik made things easier for the boy, he could not save him.

Despite a sense of dread lying heavy in his gut, he believes he will be more fortunate tonight.

Darius lies on the examination table, naked from the waist up, with the exception of the tourniquet and several blood-stained towels wrapped around his left arm. The smile on his face, when he sees Erik enter the room is weak. Squelch nods at the master, then returns to his task of rinsing out the used towels and checking the instruments in the autoclave.

Gangle continues to pack the wound, offering a grateful smile to Erik as he approaches the table.

Lifting the towels away from the wounded arm, Erik nods – his face such as can be seen, is blank. He walks to a cupboard and removes a small jar of brown powder. Taking it to the table, he opens the container and sprinkles the powder over the length of the wound. “Cover him with a sheet…leave the arm visible. Morphine for the pain and to knock him out,” Erik says to Dr. Gangle. “How does that sound my young Persian friend?” His voice is congenial and easy when speaking to Darius.

“Good. It sounds good,” Darius sighs. “The pain…I have no words – is it very bad?”

“You have quite a scratch. We will do the best we can. I just sprinkled some yunnan biayao on the wound to stop the bleeding – an herb I discovered in the Asias when I was a very young man.” Erik removes his hat and jacket, hanging it on the coat rack near the door. After a moment’s consideration, he also removes his mask. “Before I turn around, be advised I have removed my mask. I believe I can be of more use if my vision is not inhibited in any way. Will that be a problem for any of you?”

“No, master,” answers Squelch.

“We know what you look like,” says Gangle. “I rather prefer you without the mask if you want to know the truth.”

“Darius? You have never seen me thus – perhaps, I should wait until you are asleep.”

“When I look at you I see a friend.”

“Hmmm,” says Erik. “Gangle, I think we should not put him through anything more tonight. Inject the morphine and initiate the chloroform drip.”

Gangle nods and secures the bottle from the medicine cabinet and prepares the mask.

“I would be fine,” Darius protests.

“Another time,” Erik laughs. “You are too gracious and kind, my young friend – although we might be able to save on the drugs if you simply fainted.”

The injection of the morphine is given, then Gangle begins to administer the chloroform. “Take a few breaths,” Gangle says. “Easy.”

“Thank you,” Darius murmurs as his eyelids close.

As the three men continue their individual tasks as drugs take hold, Erik and Gangle wash their hands and put on rubber gloves. Erik takes the surgical instruments Squelch removes from the autoclave, laying them on the small metal table next to Darius.

“Dr. Gangle – do you care to begin?”

“Me?” The tall, awkward man, shakes his head. “I thought you…I cannot. This is beyond my skill…my experience.”

“Mine as well – this will take both of us regardless. But enough talk,” Erik says. “Let us see if we can save his arm.”


	5. New Perspectives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg and Nadir have a conversation where he learns surprising information about her. Darius is recovering from his surgery. Some E/C fluff.

New Perspectives

The silence is as unnerving as the earlier conglomeration of sirens, screams, roaring animals and the unique sound of the fire itself – the crackling of burning wood and crashing of wooden timbers. The Garden Theater situated next to the rail tracks prevented the fire from traveling farther east, leaving the roads to Steeplechase and Phantasma relatively empty.

Even so, the dark haze that hovers over the beach makes visibility difficult, the glare of the headlights reflects back at them from the wall of fog, making the street nearly impossible to navigate. For a brief moment, Nadir considers turning around, but he has to see Darius. Has to know the boy is all right. He keeps his eyes forward on the street in front of him, adjusting the bandana covering his face every so often, using the tip to wipe his eyes.

Meg adopts the same posture – still as a statue, one hand resting on the side of her leather seat, the other holding a handkerchief to cover her nose. Tears much like Nadir’s flow from her eyes as well. Occasionally, she issues a cough, smothering the noise in her hand, glancing every so often to the daroga.

“You should have stayed at the house,” Nadir finally says. “I doubt Darius would wish you to be putting your health in danger.”

“I, on the other hand, believe he will be happy to see me,” Meg replies. “Despite what my mother infers and likes to discuss, I love him. He understands me and we have a special relationship.”

“It is not my place to question what the situation is between the two of you, however, I do believe you are correct in his likely pleasure to have you with him.”

Meg turns to face him fully. “Thank you.”

“For what?” He glances quickly at her, sensing her eyes on him.

“For trusting that I am sincere in my concern and love for my husband.”

“I only said I felt he would be happy to see you. Do not assume anything more from that comment.”

Meg returns to her original pose, rigid in her seat, now with her arms folded firmly across her chest. “Why does no one trust me?”

“ _You_ ask _that_?”

“The shooting was three years ago – I have done nothing since that time to invite this distrust.” Her mouth tightens. Brushing the crushed linen handkerchief against her eyes, she dams the flow of tears flooding her cheeks.

Nadir pulls the car over and stops, setting the brake with a jerk, then turns to face her, resting an arm on the back of his seat. “When Erik was a young man in Persia, one of those who took an interest in him was the Shah’s sister – we called her the little Sultana. You remind me of her.”

Tossing her head, the blue eyes narrow. “Am I supposed to know what that means? He never talked of Persia to me. All I know about Persia is what Darius tells me, which is very little. I assume it was either terrible or forgettable. Who was this little Sultana?”

“She was very beautiful and very manipulative. Many would succumb to her will and suffer for it. Erik was one of those. He was clever and could be evil, but also damaged – how much I would not know until later – but…she was cleverer and very evil – having been raised to see ordinary people as nothing more than toys – she played on his weaknesses, using him for her own amusement. He bears the scars of her interest in him. All of us bear the scars.”

“You are saying I am like that?” Meg’s laugh is bitter. “If anyone was used, it was me.”

“I am not saying you were not ill-used – you are merely impervious to the feelings of others. Your mother cries over her guilt more often than you might suspect.”

“Erik does not cry – he has his Christine and the children…”

“Yes and he deserves the happiness he has.”

“You yourself said he was evil.”

“And works to heal himself and make amends – as he has done for you and your mother – she, at least, recognizes that.”

“And I am a greedy little pig? Is that what you think?” The tone sharp, her hands ball into fists.

“I think you are a lovely young woman who has a husband who loves her and it is about time you stopped playing games – particularly with young Gustave.”

“Gustave? What are you talking about?” Her brow furrows. “He is a child. I feel safe with him – he wants nothing of me – like Darius. I only want him to know I mean him no harm…that I am sorry.”

“I was the sheriff in a country with some very vicious and nasty methods of punishment for those who disobeyed the laws and orders of the Shah. Much like Erik, I have attempted, somewhat successfully, to create a new life for myself. This does not mean that I have forgotten how criminals behave.”

“So now I am a criminal because I am friendly with my friends’ son?”

“You came very close to killing that child and your own mother. However badly treated you may have been in your mind – there was no justification for your actions that night – not then, not now – so, yes, to me, you are a criminal. Perhaps you should have been punished for your crime – instead you were rewarded with compassion and understanding. Yet you act as if you are the only one who has suffered abuse. What of Darius’ scars?”

“What are you talking about? What scars? You are confusing me. I know nothing of scars.”

Nadir can only stare at her – she is his wife. What was the situation here? How could she not know of the tracks of the scourge that line his back, the rope burns on his ankles and wrists, or the small, but vicious cuts to his genitals – one of the Khanum’s favorite tortures.

A glimmer of awareness crosses his mind. Is he mistaken? Forty years of police work and mistaken about this woman? No. He is not mistaken…he cannot let her reactions confuse him. He has said too much already. Darius would not be pleased if he upset Meg – whatever he might believe about her. “I am sorry – I am speaking of matters that do not concern me.”

Meg can only shake her head, a slight tremor tinges her voice. “I am doing nothing wrong – or if I am I do not mean to. Tell me and I will stop. Darius always tells me when I am not acting appropriately.” Her eyes are wide – dry now – questioning. “Are you going to do anything to me?”

This is more than he wants to deal with…or understand. Darius says she is being treated, he has to trust that. The conversation is unsettling. Best to leave all of this to another time when his emotions are not running so high.

“Nothing more than what I have been doing – watching you,” he says, releasing the brake and pulling the car back onto the road. “You will leave Gustave alone. He is a child. You are a woman married to a husband who adores you. Act like it.”

“I cannot…you do not know…Darius understands.” The first sob escapes before she can control a new flow of tears. “Darius understands.”

“Good. That is good he understands. Be a good wife to him,” Nadir mumbles, making an attempt to pat her hand, but succeeding only in waving his fingers before drawing back – unsure about touching her. “I lost one son, I will not watch another die.”

“Die? He will not die…please tell me that – I could not bear my life if he were to die.” The white linen cloth is torn apart as she rants. “Is he badly injured?” Swallowing hard, attempting to regain some calm.

“That is not what I meant, but I am pleased you finally asked,” he grunts. “He was bleeding quite badly – his left arm was mauled by a pregnant lion – whether her condition had anything to do with it, I do not know – I only know such a wound can create a lot of damage.”

“I see,” Meg says. “I am sorry. You did not act as though Darius’ injury was serious. None of this seems real to me. I only want him to be all right.”

“You spend too much time playing roles – maybe this is an opportunity for you to live in the real world.”

“I am trying – you have no idea how hard I am trying.”

Darius’ arm is propped up by a padded board. The final suture is tied, the wound wrapped in a bandage soaked with carbolic acid, then draped with a small towel.

Gangle clears away the surgical instruments – moving them to the sink for rinsing before their return to the autoclave for sterilization. Squelch gathers the soiled linens, tossing them into a rattan hamper for washing. With Erik’s assistance, they put another clean gown over Darius for warmth, careful not to disturb the arm. A pillow is placed under his head and a fresh cotton sheet and soft wool blanket cover him.

The young Persian’s thick lashes flutter, the green eyes opening slowly to slits – shifting from one man to the next, settling on Erik. A gasp escapes his throat as he closes his eyes again.

“Oh, dear god,” Erik exclaims. “My mask, I forgot I had taken it off.”

Darius opens his eyes, reaching out with his right hand, grasping Erik. “No,” he says, his voice still thick from the medication. “No mask. Let see. No wish to insult man who saving my life.” With those words, he slowly takes in the deformity, until he settles on Erik’s eyes. “Hurt?”

“No…sometimes from the mask rubbing certain areas – no more than anyone else whose skin is chafed.”

“When? Accident? Persia?”

“Neither – a birth defect…or series of birth defects. There have been a number of theories, but whatever the cause, the effect remains. My travels around the world, to Persia in particular added other scars,” Erik smirks. “But, as I can see from your own torso, you know well the ways of the Shah’s court.”

Gangle and Squelch listen to the dialogue, exchanging glances. “Are you feeling any pain, Mr. Darius? I can give you some more morphine,” Dr. Gangle asks, looking to Erik for approval.

“Are you? In pain?” Erik asks.

“Left hand and forearm – where she caught me.”

“Yes, she did quite a bit of damage,” Erik says softly, watching his young friend’s face.

“No left hand or forearm? Correct?” Darius manages a bitter laugh. “Phantom pain – ironic.”

“Yes, I suppose you could say that,” Erik adds his own chuckle.

Darius body begins to shake with deep sobs. Squelch comes up behind him and cradles him to his broad chest. While Erik continues to stroke his right arm. Gangle prepares another injection of morphine.

“Half of what we gave him for anesthesia – just enough to dull the pain.”

“There was too much damage to the bone, ligaments and blood vessels – everything was mangled,” Erik says. “We have put the arm on ice, so you can see the injuries and to decide how you wish to deal with the remains.”

“Darius!” Nadir and Meg press through the door to the infirmary – stopping short at the glare Erik gives both of them.

“A little quiet please…Darius is just waking up – he is still groggy,” he says, turning away from the two of them to pick up his mask – placing it on his face. “Take off your coats and hats – put them over in the corner, there.” Indicating a coat rack tucked in the farthest corner of the room, already laden with the outer clothing of Erik, Gangle and Squelch. “Wash your hands and put on a gown.”

Darius takes his hand, “Why mask? Surely Nadir and Meg…”

“Nadir, yes – Meg has never been able to observe this visage without becoming ill.”

“She knows you…”

Erik pats him on the hand. “That is a topic for discussion at another time – be with your family now.”

Nadir takes Meg’s arm, walking her to the table where Darius is tucked as comfortably as possible under the circumstances. Pressing her to go ahead of him. She turns to question his movement. “Go, be with your husband.”

Free of any restrictions from Nadir and Erik, she rushes to Darius, throwing her body across his. Taking his face in her hands, kissing his cheeks, patting him on the chest. “You are whole. You did not die.”

“No, did not die,” he responds, caressing her face with his right hand.

“I was so frightened I froze, I could not respond, I wanted to take my medicine, but was afraid – you were not there to tell me how much to take.”

“You are taking medication?” Erik asks. “What is she taking? Is this something the therapist is giving her?”

“Phenobarbital…for her depression…to help her sleep.”

“When?” Erik asks.

“Soon after accident.”

Nadir exchanges a look with Erik. “For three years? She has been medicated for three years?”

“Therapy not working…Dr. Martin…talking of lobotomies…institutions.”

_“Darius, I do not know what to do,” Meg said, tucking herself closer to him as they sat watching the surf wash away the sand on the beach. “I cannot sleep – I keep remembering the pier and the gun and the men…all the men.” Her blue eyes searched his. “I feel so dirty…fouled by everything that has happened. Everyone hates me.”_

_“Shhh, I do not hate you. You are beautiful and talented and smart. None of those men understood how lovely and fragile you are.”_

_“All your sweet words do not make the memories go away,” she said, pulling away from him, standing up to press herself against the railings. “Dr. Martin said something about a surgery – remove a part of my brain so I will not think about those things…”_

_“No. No surgeries.”_

_“Then a drug…to help block some of the memories – to deal with the pain.”_

_“I think it would be better to just continue talking it out – forgiving yourself – you did nothing wrong.”_

_“I wanted to be loved,” she cried. “No one loved me – after all of that. I wish I had put the gun to my head.”_

_“No, Meg, no. Never that – suicide is never an option,” he said, taking her in his arms. “I will speak to Dr. Martin about the medication – maybe he can put me in charge – to monitor you.”_

_“You would do that? How? We do not live near one another.”_

_“We could get married – live together – I will take charge of your care.”_

_“I would be your wife?”_

_“Yes,” he replied, nodding his head, convinced this is the answer. “We would not have to share a bed or have relations, if that is a concern. I do not wish to create more bad memories.”_

_“You would do that?”_

_“Until there came a time when…if you felt safe and consented.”_

“Why are you talking about me? This is not about me,” Meg says. Looking to the other side of the bed, she notices the bandaging on his left arm. “Where is the rest of your arm?” Reaching across his body, she touches what is now the end of his left arm, reaching three inches below his elbow. “Erik? What happened to his arm?”

“The damage was more than both Gangle and I could repair.”

“If anyone could – he was badly injured, Miss Meg,” Gangle steps in, lifting her hand from Darius’ arm, giving her a gentle smile. “The radius and ulna were both severed into two pieces. It appears that the claw attached itself to one of the wrist bones dislocating several of the other bones when it was withdrawn. That does not take into consideration the torn ligaments. We tied off the arteries and cut the bones cleanly and removed the damaged muscle tissue.”

“Oh, no,” she cries. “My poor Darius.”

“No further explanation is necessary,” Nadir says. “I doubt any of you wanted this to be the outcome. My boy is alive – that is the important thing.” He moves to the table taking a place next to Meg, putting an arm around her.

Darius manages a weak smile. “Need to get some sleep – Dr. Gangle making certain I will not feel my hand. Can still feel index finger.”

“It is best he not be moved – at least until tomorrow,” Erik says. “God knows what a disaster it is out there.”

“Even in the darkness, you can sense the destruction – the smoke and debris weighted down by the mist coming in from the sea.”

“Every so often we heard yelling and shouting…” Squelch says. “...as if there was a celebration going on instead of a tragedy.”

“There will be the ghouls collecting souvenirs, I am certain,” Nadir says. “I saw a crowd headed for the area where Black Prince was shot. What happens to people?”

“Reminiscent of the old days, eh, Daroga?”

“Sadly so. Civilized behavior is a very tentative thing.”

“Do you want me to move Mr. Darius to a hospital bed, Master,” Squelch asks. “This table is not very stable.”

“Yes,” Erik replies. “Maybe place another bed next to him, so Meg can rest nearby.”

“Thank you. I would like that.”

“She watches over me,” Darius mumbles. “My Meg.”

“Do you wish to stay with him, too?” Erik asks. “Dr. Gangle and Mr. Squelch will be here.”

“Let them get some rest at least, I will sit with the children.”

“I am sorry, my friend,” Erik says, pressing a hand on the daroga’s shoulder.

“You did what you could – I doubt anyone could have done better,” Nadir says. Pulling the keys out of his pocket, he gives them to Erik. “Go home to your family – maybe we can move Darius in the morning.”

“The little children?”

“Fine – being treated better than any other time in their short lives, I suspect. Christine needs you there, though, a baby on the way, one just walking, one trying to figure out who he is. They need their papa. Tell Adele I love her. All will be well...somehow.”

“I will not argue with you. It has been a long night – get some rest yourself – we have to deal with the aftermath of this – sooner rather than later.”

“For the rest of the night, though, we rest.”

“Gangle, Squelch – get some rest. Good work. Meg, you get some rest, too. We will need to talk about the medication you are taking.”

“Yes, Erik. Darius, too?”

“Of course, especially Darius.”

After finding his coat in the array on the coat rack, pulling it on, followed by the black hat, he leaves the Infirmary to find the sun making an effort to break through the dirty sky. “Morning already.” Stretching his arms, he walks to Nadir’s car and turns the car around to head back to Bay Ridge.

Despite the hour and the horrors of the night, he cannot help but smile as he pulls into the driveway to find a very pregnant woman, much as he left her – garbed in her favorite lavender chenille robe – standing in the doorway waiting for him. Although he feels…knows she should be in bed asleep, the sight of her chestnut curls falling over her shoulders and her aquamarine eyes crinkling in response to the smile on his face warms his heart as nothing else ever could.

“You should be in bed,” he says, walking toward her, taking her into his arms despite the dirt he knows is rubbing off on her. Pressing his lips to her forehead, breathing in the scent of her – finally something clean and fresh, overriding the odors of blood, smoke and the burned detritus he left behind him at the beach.

“So should you,” she replies, caressing his cheek. “Nadir and Meg?”

“Stayed behind to be with Darius.”

“His arm?”

“We had to amputate his hand and a part of his forearm,” he says, wrapping an arm around her waist, walking her into the conservatory.

“Do you want something to eat or drink?”

He shakes his head. “Just a quick shower and then to hold you.”

“A brandy?”

“No,” he says, walking her up the stairs, keeping one layer behind, a hand on the small of her back as she takes each step slowly, using the curved rail for support with one hand, hiking up her robe with the other.

“I may have to take a room downstairs soon.”

“Tomorrow, perhaps?” he laughs. “Where is Adele?”

“In one of the downstairs bedrooms – sharing it with the twins and Gustave lying on the floor,” Christine says. “None of them wanted to sleep alone. It is very sweet, actually. He felt so protective of them and they were quite taken with Adele and she with them. Helen took Emilie in with her after letting the children play together for a while. I think Emi was happy to be included.”

“So Gustave’s mood is better?”

“Some trauma – the death of the animals was very hard on him,” she says. “Then Meg was behaving strangely. Having the children here was good for him. It seems they all call him Goose which even had him laughing.”

“Goose?” He chuckles. “Oh, my – I suppose that is fine, so long as the boys at his school do not discover that moniker.” In a more serious tone, he continues. “Meg has been taking medication for her depression – Darius has been monitoring it – not well, I fear. I need to speak with Nadir – he might know more.”

“You think that is why her behavior is so odd?”

“Most likely.” They reach their bedroom, he opens the door ushering her in. “I will tell you a tale of a man in pain who sought comfort in medication some years ago”

“You?”

“Who else?”

“Not tonight?”

“No, I believe I promised you more than the kiss I gave when I left,” he says, quirking his eyebrow.

“I imagined you would be tired,” she giggles.

“I must shower,” he says, removing his outer clothes, carrying them into the bathroom, tossing them into a wicker hamper. “Why should you not shower with me since I dirtied you? At the very least, you must change your robe and gown.” He extends his hand, gesturing with his fingers she come forward, singing, _“Come to me, Angel of Music.”_

A hoot of laughter greets the memory he evokes. “Hmmm, you think all you need to do is wiggle your fingers to get your way,” she says, removing her robe, as she pads behind him into the bathroom.

“Would I do that?” he asks, taking the robe he adds it to the laundry.

“Ha!” she says, giving him a side eye. “Works every time.”

“Yes, it does…does it not?” he says – not an entirely new thought. “Here, let me assist you with your gown.”


	6. New Day's Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik and Christine fluffy smut. Meg's and Darius' marriage and her addiction are the focus of the balance of this chapter.

The sun is higher in the sky than he imagined it would be when he fell asleep, resting his head in the crook of Christine’s neck, an arm draped across her belly, his hand stroking the new life growing within her. The thought was he would only rest his eyes, despite the fatigue. The scent of the Castile soap and lavender scented lotion is still fresh on their skin. Their shower was as much play as it was for cleansing. Since their first coupling, one moonless night on the rooftop of the Palais Garnier… and in their three years together in New York they never tired of touching one another, coming together as one, or simply bringing the other to their peaks as they had a few hours earlier.

Christine’s condition and the nearness of the birth forbade penetration, but Erik was, as always, masterful with his hands shifting from a gentle tweaking of her areolas, then gliding over her blossoming body, to her mons cloaked in a mass of dampened chestnut curls, to open the flower petals of her labia, to locate the sensitive bud. A low moan confirms his success. Increasing the intensity and rhythmic pulsing of his fingertips. The gasps, pants, and little noises increased then abruptly stopped with a sharp intake of breath. Her fingers digging into his arms, before falling against his chest, confirm her satisfaction.

Despite his protestations, his beloved wife reciprocated, grinning at his moans of pleasure as she toyed with his sac while applying pressure to his perineum with the tips of her fingers. Always the excellent student, she mastered the stroking of his member, knowing just how to pace her movements for stimulation, yet allowing him to leave whatever concerns troubled him – past or present – to simply find pleasure in his body – either by speeding up or slowing down her ministrations– a joy he never anticipated knowing in this lifetime. How well she knew him.

Intercourse purified him. This was the communion other sought in church. No more guilt over his cravings, as was the norm since his mother came in on him, hearing his moans and thinking he was injured again. The horror of the day when she discovered him with the smashed mirror – his wrists cut and bleeding was possibly the only guilt she ever felt toward her treatment of the sensitive boy she bore. 

After so many years he was able to see the irony in her second show of concern for his wellbeing, finding him exploring his sexuality and, thus, making that another curse of his being born. _“My God, this means you can beget spawn.”_ He could actually find some humor in the recollection. Yes, he could beget spawn and what wonderful spawn they were. This new spawn would be yet another treasure for him to cherish.

Christine was the catalyst of all this acceptance of himself. The previous night was no different – the horror of the fire, Darius’ injury and surgery, discovering Meg’s addiction, wondering how to deal with over a hundred little people and who knew how many others might be needing shelter and employment – not to mention the two little ones he took into his care – he woke feeling refreshed and able to confront the issues awaiting him, sorry only that he overslept.

His wife shifts her position, less in wakefulness than simply sensing his movement. He slips from the bed, making certain the duvet is covering her, brushing a curl of hair from her cheek.

Two kisses turned his life around – a foolish leave-taking he would always rue – and her return to his life – memories filling his heart with an incredible ache. How precious she was, transforming this lonely, bitter, deeply damaged man to someone who was now, if not admired, at least respected – a man concerned about hundreds of people, when, once, he barely tolerated his own existence in the cellars beneath the opera house, believing there was nothing else for him.

When she adjusts herself again, he stops, not wanting to wake her, smiling as she sings one of her dream ditties. Another of the charming facets he discovered about her – Christine sings in her sleep. Most of the songs were really just odd notes having no particular content – others might not consider it singing at all. Yet, he would write them down and eventually created a number of songs incorporating the dream snippets for her to sing with the orchestra.

Tearing himself away from watching her, he treads swiftly and quietly to the armoire, removing several garments to take to one of the other bathrooms in the house to dress for the day ahead of him.

“Erik?”

Turning around, he whispers, “Go back to sleep.”

Rubbing her eyes, she yawns as she struggles to roll onto her side. “I will not,” she declares. “Where are you going?”

“To the hotel and the theater,” he says. “I must check on Darius, Miss Fleck, the displaced people…”

“No,” she says, unable to manage to lift herself up, falling back against her pillows. “You will come back here and we will discuss all of these things together.”

“Christine…”

“You will help me get out of this bed – since I seem to be unable to do so on my own – thank goodness you did not make your escape. You will assist me in putting on some clothing – as I am naked as you are…where were you going in that state anyway?

“To the hall bathroom – I did not want to wake you.”

“And if Helen happened to come up to fetch something for Emilie or Gustave was going to his room for one reason or another – what sort of reaction do you suppose might have resulted with your bare bottom…and other parts so exposed?”

“I had not thought…” He mutters, clutching the pile of clothing more tightly to him, holding a shirt behind his back.

“Obviously,” she laughs. “We shall get dressed, then go downstairs and make some plans before you go running off without a plan.”

“What makes you think I do not have a plan?”

She quirks an eyebrow at him and purses her lips.

“You are correct...I do not.”

“Harrumph,” she snorts. “Adele is here and I am certain you will find her more than willing and able to help deal with all the park matters. Nadir must certainly be part of the issues concerning Darius and Meg. This is a family matter.”

Erik sighs. “I keep forgetting I have a family.”

“Well, I shall always be here to remind you. Now help me up. Let us get dressed. Emilie needs to see her Maman and Papa. The time is nigh when my attentions will be diverted away from her – she needs to know I am here. Still more plans needed – we must retain Helen’s sister sooner than I anticipated…and a part-time nanny...maybe full-time…if the twins stay on with us…and the wet nurse.”

“Yes, dear,” Erik says, kissing her full on the lips after she wraps her arms around his neck, allowing him to pull her into a sitting, then standing position next to the bed. “More plans are needed.”

“Noooo. Help. Gangle. My arm. She has me. I…I cannot get free…Allah, I beg you…”

“Darius, wake up,” Nadir says, rising from his chair next to the bed. He shakes the young man gently, holding the undamaged arm flailing in the air.

Squelch runs from the infirmary into the hospital room where Darius spent a quiet night up until this point.

Gangle lags behind. “Help Inspector Khan, I shall prepare another injection of morphine,” he says, “He is reliving the attack – the lion was pulling him toward her, when we managed to get him free.”

Khan looks up as Squelch takes up his position on the other side of the bed, pulling Darius to his chest, cradling him. “I learned the best way to calm someone down is to hold them tucked like a baby – I am taking his fear. It helped when I used to train young wrestlers – they would allow their passions to overwhelm their reason. You cannot win a match if your brain has lost control.”

Nadir nods. “True. Prisoners always ultimately calmed down when physically restrained – mostly they would fight until worn out, but same effect. The dangerous ones were those who did not struggle, who contained their strength – used their brains as you said.”

“Master Erik was like that?” Squelch comments.

“Why do you assume he was a prisoner?”

“Most people consider us freaks to be stupid. In my case, I am big and strong, so especially believed to be stupid.”

“A mistake to judge anyone by their appearances.”

“But true, nonetheless,” Squelch snorts. “Working fairs is one place to find out the weaknesses of the public. Most can be conned.”

“Maybe that is what a person is hoping for – not so much to be robbed and such – but mystified.”

“A lot of cheap tricks will please most – that is true.” He lays Darius back down, still asleep or under the influence of the medication. In any event, calm again for the moment.

Gangle walks in with the syringe, stopping when he sees Darius resting peacefully. “Ah, good. I would prefer not to medicate him any more than necessary.” He looks around the room to the other bed where Meg is still soundly asleep. “She did not waken at his cries?”

Nadir shakes his head.

“Did she take any medication?”

“Not that I saw.”

“If Darius has been dosing her, then she may have something in her bag,” Gangle says.

“Should I check?” Nadir asks.

“That is up to you, but at this point, I think we should wait,” the doctor says. “Deal with the immediate issue, but be aware. I would not wish to damage trust with her waking up to find us going through her purse”

“Inspector Khan and I were talking about Master Erik being one of his prisoners.” Squelch says.

“I do not recall saying anything of the sort.”

Squelch just laughs.

“Was he?” Gangle asks. “We often wondered. There is something in his nature suggesting he was caged at some point – like he still is or was.”

“Yes, Missus Christine, changed all that.” Squelch says.

“But?” Nadir asks, allowing their belief – it was the truth after all and, as he spent more and more time at the park, could see they both loved and admired their “master.”

“It was like that lion grabbing onto Darius arm – as if she was, not so much trying to kill him, but reaching for help. All those animals were used to people being around. She was afraid and it was like she was hoping he would save her. When Missus Christine sang – that night – the master looked at her that way. He was always so unhappy until she came to Phantasma.”

“Perhaps…and I have no doubt you are correct about Erik. Yes, he was my prisoner, but from what I know of him – he was more a prisoner of his own mind, than of any person or group,” Nadir says. “As for the lion, you are giving an animal a lot of credit.”

“Why not – we are all animals,” Gangle laughs. “She was a pregnant mama and the fire frightened her – Darius must have seemed friendly.”

“Well, judging from his screams, Darius did not see it in those terms,” Nadir grunts, sitting back into the chair.

“The wound was very bad – despite the fact that she was not truly attacking him, just pulling him toward her. If you have ever had a house cat, they will grab you that way, too.”

“One does not mess with a cat of any size, is my experience,” says Squelch. “The smallest one can do much damage with their claws and teeth.”

“She is safe?”

“The lion?” Gangle nods. “Yes. They were grateful we could help with the animals they saved – so many died. Her cubs will be a new beginning.”

“What about Darius – his arm?” Nadir nods to the man on the bed, looking like a young child – the fearful dream over – his breath easy and even.

“The Master and I worked together – with our anatomy book open – taking care to do our best,” Gangle says. “The Master believes he can make a prosthetic arm without too much difficulty.”

“Is that so?”

“Have you not noticed all the automatons here at Phantasma…and the other parks?” Squelch laughs.

“Of course,” Nadir says. “Fully functional.”

“Absolutely – the first functioning prosthetic hand was created in 1551.”

“Really?”

“Yes – the Master has studied the work of Andreas Vesalius and taught me and young Gustave much about the workings of the human body and creating automatons.”

“My hand,” Darius mumbles, “Hurts.” His eyes open slowly, surveying the eyes of the men standing around his bed. “Oh. It is true then. I hoped it was a dream.”

Dr. Gangle shakes his head. “No, I am sorry, but we were just discussing prosthetics.”

Darius frowns. “A fake hand.”

“If done correctly,” Erik says, walking into the room, “you will hardly know the difference.”

“I doubt that,” Darius scoffs. “But I trust you will do your best.”

“Which is always better than most – right, daroga?” Erik laughs.

“I suppose so – I would not want to argue with you while my boy’s future is somewhat under your control.”

“We have the ablated hand contained in ice. Do you wish to have a burial ceremony?”

Nadir looks over to Darius.

“There is nothing in particular that needs to be done, according to our faith, however, a burial would be respectful – perhaps somewhere it could be recovered for my death and buried with me?”

“Might be time to buy some burial plots,” Nadir says. “Grim talk for such a day, but something that should be considered now that we have a hand that needs attending to.”

“Darius? Darius?” Meg sits up, looking around the room. “Where am I? What is this?” She tugs at the blanket covering her. “What is happening?”

“It is all right, Meg,” Darius calls out. “I am here. Do not be afraid. There was an accident. You are fine.”

Gangle rushes over to Meg. “You are all right, Miss Meg. This is a room in the infirmary. You fell asleep watching over Mr. Darius. We thought you would rest more comfortable in a bed. How do you feel?”

“Shaky, I feel like my skin is alive…Darius? I am frightened.”

“Allow Dr. Gangle to assist you, my dear, I cannot at the moment.”

“Why – why are you just lying there,” she shouts. “Why are we here?”

“Here, Miss Meg, take a dose of your medicine.” His pale brown eyes smile at her as he hands her a white tablet. “I think you will feel better.”

Meg dry swallows the pill. “Could I have some water?”

“Of course,” Squelch says, pouring her a glass from the pitcher on Darius’ night stand, taking it to her.

“What is this all about?” Nadir growls at Darius, under his breath. “What have you been giving her?”

“Barbiturates – this is a new one I am trying…phenobarbital, it calms her.”

“You are giving her drugs. Why?”

“Depression – over Gustave…mainly the men…all the men…using her body…feeling dirty,” his tone is dead. “I thought if I could love her and treat her gently and with respect it would help…and it did, but there were nightmares and the talk therapy was not helping. I gave her a pill and it helped.”

“Now she is addicted,” Erik says.

Darius nods.

“Darius,” Meg says as she walks to her husband’s bed. “Gangle gave me something – I am feeling much better. I was just frightened for a moment when I did not know where I was. Squelch and I are going to get us all some breakfast” She stops when she sees his hand. “What happened?”

He reaches his good hand to her. Nadir and Erik move away, letting her pass. She smiles up at both of them, her curious look returns when she sits next to Darius.

“I was helping the people from Dreamland move some of their wild animals and one of the lions caught me with her claw.”

“Why?”

“She was frightened by the fire and I got a little too close.”

“Did they kill her?”

“No, my dear, she did nothing wrong – I got too close,” Darius speaks slowly and softly. “She was just being a lion.”

“I guess that is all right then,” Meg says. “She was just being herself.”

“Exactly.”

“Miss Meg did you still want to help me with the food?” Squelch asks. “I know I am starved, but I think we can all use a good meal.”

Turning on her brightest smile, she says, “Yes, I would like that very much. Is there anything you prefer, Darius – no bacon, I know, even though you would like it, if you tried?”

“Just oatmeal and maybe some fresh fruit.”

“Perfect,” she says. “I just need to find my bonnet.”

“Your wrap and bonnet are in the infirmary,” Dr. Gangle says. “I was going to change Mr. Darius’ dressings, Master…”

“Go ahead with them – her mother is taking charge of the staff and it might do Meg good to see her.”

“Adele is here?”

“We both know she runs the place – despite my best efforts, I still defer to her on most decisions.”

“Yes, I know,” Nadir says. “As a married couple, we do converse.”

“You never said – saving it for a rainy day?”

“Something like that – I am weary of the fighting. It is bad enough she cannot reconcile with her daughter.”

“At least now we know why…or part of the reason.”

Dr. Gangle clears his throat.

“Right, Gregory – accompany them. I shall tend to Darius’ dressings.”

“Gregory?”

“His real name – Gregory Armbruster Wright…Squelch is Alexander Gorlinski.”

“You met them when?”

“On the ship. Gloria…Miss Fleckstein, shortened to Fleck we met here.”

When they are gone, Erik and Nadir return to the bed, finding Darius with tears filling his eyes and coursing down his cheeks.

“What the hell?” Nadir says. “Why did you not ask for help? It is as though she drifts in and out of reality.”

“She seemed to be fine. She was happy with the new routines – she was even letting me hold her and kiss her gently. The nightmares stopped and she was happy. Truly happy.”

“What happened?”

“She became obsessed with _making things up to Gustave_ was how she phrased it.”

“Nothing more?” Erik asks.

“Just that he was a young man now and would be interested in girls – how she could help him.”

“What the hell?” Nadir says.

“I noticed nothing,” Erik says.

“Then you were the only one,” Nadir says. “What happened to your lack of trust for everyone on the planet?”

“Excuse me?”

“She tried to kill your son and instead of casting her out of your life, you are all forgiving.”

“I was part of the reason she acted in such a way – in any event, I thought that was what I was supposed to do – forgive. Forgive my mother, forgive the idiot vicomte, forgive Adele, forgive every son-of-a-bitch who cursed and damned my life…and…”

“Who told you that?”

“No one _told_ me. I figured if Christine could forgive me, then I had to forgive everyone else.”

“Well, Meg is not ready to be forgiven, if you ask me,” the daroga responds, rising from the chair to pace the floor.

“Nadir – she is my wife.” Darius attempts to rise on his elbow, reaching out with his stump.

“Is she?” he scoffs, turning back to the bed, rushing over to press Darius down, returning his arm to its pillow. “Not from what you just said. You are her caretaker. She can barely communicate coherently and her actions are, well, just odd.”

“There are many forms of marriage.” Darius lies back, addressing the ceiling.

“What you have is not a marriage,” Nadir says. “The girl…woman is sick. I do not know how you have managed so long masking this, but she is ready to break. Is there anything more we do not know?”

“What do you mean about more?” Darius shifts his eyes to Nadir.

“So there is something else – were never very good at keeping secrets – almost got you killed a few times in Persia.”

“An honest man, then?” Erik asks. “I do not know you well, but I wonder now, too, what else there is you are not saying.”

“I have found bottles of spirits in strange places – the bathroom cupboard, in the corners of the armoires, behind clothing.”

“You do not keep alcohol in the house for guests…for yourself?”

Darius shakes his head. “My religion forbids drinking of alcohol. When I found the first bottle, I asked her and she just laughed…said it was a gift for you and Christine – did not want me to know because of my religion.”

“Then?” Nadir prompts, grinding his teeth.

“She was enraged when I asked her again after finding more bottles – accused me of spying on her. I did not know what to do.”

Nadir paces back and forth, pounding his fist into his hand. “You could have come to me. Damn it, Darius, you should have come to me.”

“That would have meant telling why I was so interested in visiting you and her mother – we never have, you know?”

“Whose fault is that?”

“It just caused friction when I brought it up – she was adamant.”

“We are family,” Nadir stops and growls at him.

“I am sorry.” Tears form in Darius’ eyes. “I was trying to do the right thing. The worse it became made it all the more difficult to ask for help.”

Erik pats the young man on the shoulder and says. “I am sorry you have been left alone with this. We started exploring different treatments, but I pulled away – I did not want to be a reminder of her sorrow – and with the park closed, no one really saw very much of her to notice the changes.”

Darius shakes his head. “It is no one’s fault.”

“Is she still seeing Dr. Martin?”

“No. When he suggested the lobotomy, I stopped that treatment.”

“No one new?”

“No. I thought I could handle it.”

“Well, now you know,” Nadir says. “She needs to be put away.”

“No,” Darius says. “No. She is my wife and she is not going to some hell hole. She is not having her skull drilled and pieces of her brain removed.”

“We shall find a new doctor,” Erik says – giving Nadir a warning look. “She has to be withdrawn from the medication and alcohol, however.”

“How? When?” Darius asks.

“Here, I suppose – it is private – we have whatever palliative medicines we might need,” Erik says.

“Are you crazy, too?” Nadir asks. “You almost died.”

“But I did not, thanks to you,” Erik says. “In any event, we must wait until things have settled here and Darius has some time to heal himself. Speaking of which – his wound needs tending. There will be plenty of time to deal with Meg’s issues along with everything else.”

“The fire did not help anything,” Nadir says.

“You are the master of understatement.”

Even Darius laughs at that, before hissing as his dressing is removed, turning his head away.

“It is terrible, my son,” Nadir says, but it is clean and, even my untrained eyes sees no infection.”

Darius looks down at the stump. “I suppose I should be grateful it was not my right hand. Living near here and being part of the community, I know that this is a minor burden to bear – I look forward to my new hand. I actually welcome being a guinea pig.”

“A true scientist,” Nadir laughs.

“We shall begin as soon as possible – in the meantime, we must decide on a plan for Meg,” Erik says. “Her condition must be addressed sooner rather than later.”


	7. What's A Mother To Do?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine and Gustave have a conversation.

“Eeeeeeee! Maman, maman!” Emilie shrieks, breathing hard, as short, chunky legs propel her down the green and golden carpeted hallway to the kitchen. Margaret and Henry are close behind, lifting their legs and stomping their feet in place more than running, allowing Emilie to to reach home safely yet again. They are willing to sacrifice one or the other of themselves to Gustave, currently taking the role of “it” in a full-fledged game of tag.

“Run to home, Emi,” Margaret calls out, giggling. Her white cotton dress, matches the dress Emilie wears, the only difference being the trim – Emilie with yellow ribbons…Margaret with pink. Helen provided an extra touch to the little girl’s honey-colored hair interweaving pink ribbons to the two plaits hanging down her back. “Goose will not catch you. We will not let him.”

Gustave stops for a moment from chasing the three children – all approximately the same size, despite the age different among them – Margaret and Henry, twin midgets*, at age seven, with Emilie just three. “That is entirely not fair,” he says, affecting a grumble. “I cannot always be it – you keep changing home base.”

“And you keep chasing Emi who cannot run fast enough.” Henry comments, he, too, takes a moment to stop running. The sleeves of his striped shirt are rolled up over his wrists. Despite the attempts to fit him with a new set of clothing, Gustave’s hand-me-down shirt is too large and the tan knickers are still baggy. Nevertheless, he is saved from wearing one of the dresses consigned to male and female toddlers.

All four of them are out of breath.

“Can I help it if you and your sister can crawl under things where I cannot reach you? Emi is the only one I can tag.”

“Are you playing nicely with the children, Gustave?” Christine asks, coming into the hallway from the passage to the kitchen, almost losing her balance when Emilie charges into her, grabbing the skirt of her pale blue cambric day dress. “Emi, be careful, darling.”

“Need be safe from Goose. No wanna be it.” Shaking her head back and forth so hard her locks bounce like springs.

“Why?”

“Canna catch no one.” Smiling up at her mother, baby teeth shiny and white, amber eyes sparkling, so like her father’s. What a beauty she is going to be. A real heartbreaker if her looks continue to develop as they have. Already tall for her age, like Gustave, but unlike her brother, her hair is thick and black as coal. What Erik might have looked like had he not been cursed with his deformities.

_“Who are these people?” Christine asked, holding up a pair of tintypes – a stunning woman with an oval face and full lips, not quite curved into a full smile, hair piled almost haphazardly on top of her head, held in place by what appeared to be several mother of pearl combs. The man might have been Erik. Christine placed her thumb over half the man’s face – confirming her belief._

_Erik takes the photos from her and returns them to the Bible he recovered from the bookcase in the library at the Eyrie, returning it to its place in the sitting room bookcase. “Madeleine and Charles Saint-Rien – my parents.”_

_“I should have guessed.”_

_“He was killed in an accident on a building site. I was born the day he was buried.”_

_“Oh, Erik.”_

_“Madeleine was not pleased with any of it.”_

_“She must have been devastated at his death – pregnant.”_

_“And then giving birth to this.” With a wave of his hand, he indicated his face._

She would be lying if she said she was not concerned when carrying Gustave – more about being cast out of the deChagny manse with a newborn child and nowhere to go, than whether she would love the child or not. That Gustave was nearly perfect was a relief – she could not deny that fact.

The loss of Belle had her concerned about whether she could carry another child – a child to be born into a loving home, no matter his or her appearance. Although he did not show it, and his grief was a real and pure as hers, something in Erik’s manner suggested a sense of relief.

When she announced, or rather, her episodes of morning sickness and craving for pickled herring announced another baby was growing within her, his tension was palpable, much as he tried to hide it – for her sake…and Gustave’s. He apologized with his eyes, every time the wind blew Gustave’s hair in such a way as his deformity was visible.

With Emilie’s birth, he seemed able to finally release his bated breath…her deformities were similar to Gustave’s – the raspberry mark eventually disappeared entirely and the ridging, was covered by her hair – the same as with Gustave.

None of this eased the fear she knew Erik carried around with him now – the sense that he was holding his breath. Petting the baby and singing to her belly was part of his nightly routine before going to bed. He would speak as well, telling tales, often in other languages Christine did not know. It mattered little – this was their time together and if he wanted to have secrets with his newest child – so be it.

There had been many times in their relationship, both while still in France and here, in their new home, when he would find her frightened and crying – usually about her father – and he would sing and tell _her_ stories, often in languages she did not understand intellectually, but felt in her heart through his voice.

Much as she wished this pregnancy to be a memory, to give birth in the hallway of her beautiful home, brought on by the overabundant energy of her daughter was not a good idea. “Game time is over,” she announces. “Helen has lunch ready for all of you in the kitchen. Margaret could you take charge of Emilie, please?”

“Me, too,” Gustave grumbles. “Am I relegated to the children’s table?”

“No, you are going to join me in the Conservatory, I have some things I wish to discuss with you.”

He cocks his head, quirking an eyebrow. “What?”

“Soon enough,” she replies, then smiles brightly. “Nothing to be upset about. You look as if I was going to issue some sort of death sentence upon you – separate and apart from being condemned to eat with the little ones.”

“I feel as though I have done something wrong, but do not know what it is,” he says, the hazel eyes brimming with tears. “There now I am starting to cry. Damn it, Maman, I am supposed to be a man and I am crying.”

“Never let being a man stop you from crying and showing your emotions,” Christine says, placing an arm around his waist. “Your father will agree with me.” With a squeeze, she guides him to the Conservatory, glancing up. “You are almost as tall as he is now.”

They sit down at the round table situated in the middle of the room. The surrounding gardens are in full bloom, a soft breeze ruffles the voile curtains ushering in the fragrance of roses and gardenias. The table has been set for two – several dishes covered with glass cloches to keep the food warm.

“I thought hot dogs, sauerkraut and beans might appeal to you,” she says when his eyes widen at the luncheon choices.

“No quiche and potatoes frommage?”

“To be honest, I much prefer hot dogs myself.” Laughing, she points at the ice bucket. “Root beer.”

“So you planned to have lunch with me.”

“There is only so much conversation one can have with a three year old and two seven year olds,” she says. “Motherhood does have its disadvantages. How will they learn if not from me, but there are times when I feel particularly lacking in topics of conversation when with your father, Nadir and Adele.”

“So I am a substitute.” His mouth turned down in a moue. “Not an adult, but still a child.”

“Hardly that. You will always be my best friend. I miss our times together. They are so seldom anymore and I miss when it was just us. I must plan better – you are growing up so quickly – not just your height, but you are truly becoming a man.”

“There was father…Raoul to talk to.”

“Yes, which is one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you alone.”

His curiosity piqued to a point where he could no longer stand the suspense, says, “What – what do you want to talk to me about?”

“So many things.”

Gustave sighs deeply.

“I am sorry, many things, but this first.” Pulling a folded piece of yellow paper from her pocket, she pushes it across the table to him.

He picks up the rather cheap looking paper, the words Western Union Telegram printed on the top of the sheet. The missive addressed to Mr. Y, Phantasma, Brooklyn, New York. Advised of fires. Concerned about my family. Arriving 2 weeks.

“His family?”

“Your father had the same response.”

_“Who exactly does he consider family, I wonder? You? Gustave? I certainly doubt he is referring to me. Pompous ass as always. Smell the paper, it likely bears the fragrance of his current whiskey.”_

_“I admit the word are presumptuous”_

_“At the very least.”_

_“It is addressed to you, but would you like me to respond…tell him we are all fine, to save his money.”_

_“If I know anything about the Vicomte, he is likely coming to get money.”_

_“Erik.”_

_“Wager?”_

_“Does it have to be a bet? Again.”_

_“Sorry, my dear, he simply raises my ire. As if we do not have enough to deal with at the moment.”_

“Have you written to him?” Gustave asks.

Christine’s cheeks flush.

“You have! Why?”

“Not in friendship – only to secure the annulment papers. Erik was able to legally adopt you with the divorce papers – since your birth was conceived illicitly and Raoul was not your father. Legally, however, you were, even after he disowned you.”

“And did he send them to you?”

“Eventually. The church took a long while, but he simply held on to them – perverse…”

“So I need not fear he is planning to sweep me up and carry me bound and gagged back to Paris with him?” He takes bite of his hot dog and a long swig from the bottle of root beer.

Christine laughs. “No – you are truly Papa’s son in all ways, except for food consumption.”

“Why did you show the telegram to me then?”

“Do you want to meet with him when he is here?”

“I have a choice?”

“Yes, you do – unfortunately, your father and I do not.”

“I should be happy to see him,” he smirks. “If only to see how sotty he has become.”

“What sort of word is that – _sotty?”_

“I created an adjective from a noun – he is a drunken sot – sotty is simply easier to say.”

“Gustave, you will be civil.”

“You are too kind, Maman,” he says. “I cannot wait to see the look in his face when he meets Emilie and sees you ready to birth another child by the monster.”

“That will certainly be amusing – for all of us, I dare say.”

“What else did you want to talk about – the reason you are keeping me home? It cannot be for babysitting – Helen is doing quite well, now that Julia is here.”

“You are so good with the children.”

“Yes, I know, but, to be honest, I am bored and want to go back to Phantasma and work with Papa. He is making a prosthetic for Darius and I want to help. And we are opening in just four days.”

“I was wondering how you felt about Henry and Margaret living here.”

Gustave shrugs. “You want to adopt them? Does Papa know?” He rises from his chair and walks around the table to stand behind her, squeezing her shoulders, he bends over to whisper in her ear. “He will do whatever you want, you know that.”

Tilting her head, she rests her cheek on his hand. “In truth, I believe he had the idea first – when he brought them here, the night of the fire.”

“So do you?” Grabbing another bottle of soda, he pops the cap and takes a long swig before walking to one of the windows, gazing out at the garden.

“I really do not know.” Her smile rueful. “I should like to know more about where they came from – why their parents took them to an orphanage. If it was a matter of money, we might be able to help so they could be with their real mother and father.”

“Then there is school,” Gustave adds, facing her again.

“Yes.”

“My school is awful. They would be abused – I am abused because I like music and Papa owns the circus, as they call it. They call all of us freaks.”

“Noooo. Why did you not say anything?”

“Because Papa has enough to deal with. Whatever is said to me cannot be anywhere as severe as when he went through in school.”

“Your papa never went to school. He ran away from home when he was ten.”

“He did?” Gustave returns to his seat at the table, turning the chair around to sit on it backwards. “Why has he never told me?”

“Much of his life it not something he is proud of.”

“Well, I am proud of him.”

“You must ask him, it is not my place…”

“I know, I know – when I ask about his past, he always changes the subject – says it is unimportant.”

“Another option is having Miss Fleck come here, she is having problems with her joints and her act is becoming too difficult for her. They would have someone like them and she could tutor them as she tutored you.”

“She is not exactly like them – they are midgets,” he says, his tone professorial. “Fleck is a dwarf…she explained it to me. Midgets are just shorter than other people. Their bodies are proportional. Dwarves tend to have distortions to their bodies, most significantly the spine – probably why she is in pain and having trouble walking.”

“Then a job tutoring would be perfect.”

“If Papa helps, they would learn a lot.”

Gustave grabs another hot dog, loading it with mustard and sauerkraut. They both spend the next several minutes eating their sandwiches, watching a squirrel climb the old maple in the middle of the yard.

“Meg.” He says, breaking a silence that is becoming uncomfortable. “You want to ask me about Meg…that is why you have been keeping me home…and this special lunch.”

Looking up at him from under her dark lashes, she half smiles. “Partly, although the other two topics were important as well.”

“I-I do not know what to say,” he finishes the sandwich and after taking another swig of his root beer, he places his napkin on the table.

“Has she approached you?”

“Maman!”

“I am serious, Gustave,” Christine says. “Under normal circumstances I would let you work out your adolescent desires by yourself or encourage you to speak with your father. I just feel…I do not know…responsible? She is not the girl I knew in the past…I do not know her now and I am concerned. Her interest in _you_ troubles me.”

“So you think I desire her?”

“Yes. I am afraid I do.” Biting her lip, she looks down. “I know her presence upsets you, but that can also mask attraction.”

“Oh, God.” His lips curl in a sneer.

“That is quite an ugly face you are making, my son.”

Standing up, he walks over to her, takes her hand and bends to kiss her on the cheek and smiles. “Better?”

“Much.”

“I know from reading – at least the physical particulars of mating, so I need no explanation about that.”

Her brow furrows.

“You have not offered and I do not inquire about your relations with Papa – never asked how I came to be his son and not Raoul’s even though he was your husband.”

Although his words are true enough – they did not sting as he might have intended. The conversation promised when he was first advised of his parentage never came to pass. Life did not demand it and their family was solid – Gustave and Erik could not have been more compatible had an order been placed with the Almighty. Like his father, he was becoming more and more adept at diversions and distractions when unwilling to address a topic he was uncomfortable with. “The time never seemed right to tell you – you could have asked…what has this to do with Meg?”

“She told me. You _desired_ Papa, but not enough to marry, only toyed with him, then went off with the vicomte. He had no choice but to leave for American with her and Madame.”

“When did she tell you these things?”

“Different times, I did not believe her at first.”

“At first? Now you do?”

“You are writing to Raoul.”

“I told you why.”

“He is coming for his family – that is what he said. Are you going to leave Papa again for him.”

“Your Papa left me…since we are disclosing the truth – so I would be safe…or so he believed.”

“But you left him first…”

Christine sighs deeply. “The whole business was very complicated – in any event, Meg was not privy to any special confidences from me or your father.”

“You might still wish to be a vicomtesse.”

The idea is so ridiculous, she cannot help but laugh, to the point tears form in her eyes with this strange joviality born of her son’s distress. The look on his face, however, is dead serious. She cannot recall seeing his eyes so hard and fierce. Containing herself, realizing how torn he is…has been. “Gustave, that is so very wrong. You, of all people should know how unhappy I was. I love your father with my entire being – we are having another child. I do not understand what prompted this.”

“Meg said you were a putain…that Papa really loved her, but you…you tricked him then by singing. You did it again when we came here. She danced for him, but all he cared about was hearing you sing.”

“And do you believe I tricked him?

Rocking on his feet, heel toe heel toe, his fair skin bright red, cheeks puffed out, eyes shifting back and forth.

”Well…”

“No.” The word explodes from his mouth. “That is just stupid. I am being stupid.” He shakes his head. “I wish I had not told you what she said. I do not know why she told me these things.”

“I might. Please sit down.”

When she reaches out for his hand, he waves her off. “I really do not want to talk about this anymore.” With that he turns to leave the room.

“Gustave. It is all right – talk to me. Tell me.”

“No.”

“Gustave!” She struggles to get up from the chair, but flops back down. “Damn.” Petting her belly, she laughs. “You are one heavy baby…or I need to stop eating cookies. In any event, I shall be very happy when I can carry you in my arms.” Gazing toward the door, she says, “I am sorry you had to hear that. What on earth is wrong with Meg? I am truly worried.”

With her second attempt at getting to her feet, she succeeds, balancing one hand on the back of the chair and the other on the table. “Ouch, what is this?” Stretching her back, she presses her fingertips against her groin. “Please do not decide to be born this week. The doctor said at least two more.” She waits a moment…no more twinges. “Thank you. Maybe I shall sit here a bit longer. As Gustave says – Helen and Julia are more than capable to handle the little ones.”

Taking his place at the table, she sits down, examining the remnants of his luncheon, picking up the bottle of Root Beer, she rolls the bottle between her fingers, before taking a sip, wrinkling her nose. “Oh, my beautiful boy, what has she done to you? What am I to do with you? Or her? I shall have to call your father in – he will not be happy with any of this, I fear.”


	8. Images of Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darius, Meg and Erik...each has an epiphany.

Darius’ eyelids flutter, his green eyes opening slowly to take in the room, trying to acclimate himself. The light of a small lamp reflected in the mirror of the small vanity draws his attention. A girl wearing a white hijab– hardly out of childhood, or so she seems, sits quietly reading a book. Where is Meg…Nadir? Who is this person? How long has he been asleep? Different images flash past in his mind…the lioness, Erik and Dr. Gangle tending to him. Meg hysterical. The rest is a blur.

The stump aches – his entire arm aches – especially the finger he broke in a fall when he was fifteen that never healed properly. When he shifts his position in the bed, an attempt to use the arm no longer there, he is reminded of why he is here in this strange room…in this strange bed with metal rails and a leather strap lashed across his hips. Struggling to get up, he upends the bed table. Silent tears flow down his cheeks.

Seeing the upset and the distress, she runs to adjust the table, removes the belt and straightens the blankets, leaving them loose instead of tucked tightly as they had been while he slept, before addressing the young Persian.

Darius falls back on the pillows watching her quiet work – her skin – coffee with cream…much like his own…straight nose, thin lips, plain in comparison to the actresses and dancers at Phantasma. “Do I know you?” he says through parched lips. “If so, I forgot your name. So very rude of me, I am not myself.” With a rueful laugh he holds up the arm no longer there.

“Yasmin…my name is Yasmin Touroomi. Persian, like you,” she says, straightening up to face him, her brown eyes warm, with the barest light of humor. “You are yourself – but with a modification Allah must have believed you needed.”

“It was a worthy loss, I suppose – a soon-to be mother lioness.” The kindness in her gaze, the simple acknowledgement of their shared faith with a gentle irony tempered his sarcasm, quelled some of the anger and fear he awakened to. The dream was real.

“Seeking your care, no doubt,” she says. “An animal from the fire?”

He nods. “I told the trainer he must name one of her cubs after me.”

“That seems to be a reasonable request.” Her face changes – the professional takes over. “Are you in pain?”

“No. Yes,” he says. “I take it they have been keeping me sedated, still it feels good to be awake…or as awake as I have managed to be for these past days. Is everyone gone?”

“To the park – I am here during the times they are gone,” she says. “Would you like something to eat? You were taking broth – Mr. Khan and your wife were feeding you.”

“Indeed?” The idea of Meg taking care of him was a small shock – she was always so helpless, but much of that was his own doing. How much damage has he caused? Thinking he could cure her…just as he thought he could manage the lioness with the touch of his hand – not understanding her terror, not really understanding Meg’s terror. Best not to think of that now – the news of her caregiving heartened him in a strange way, though.

“Your father prepared the food, but your wife fed you, even when you were unwilling. I tried to step in, but she was quite insistent. Most family members are happy to have someone else tend to such challenging chores.”

“Thank you for telling me,” he says. “I do feel a bit hungry.”

“There is lamb stew…or would you prefer broth?” Her head tilts gently to the side…once again she shows a glimmer of a smile.

“Perhaps some of both…”

“Very well, I shall return shortly.” Nodding to the carved wooden chair situated next to the bed. “You may wish to relieve yourself before I return.” Without looking at him again, she leaves the room.

“Thank you,” he says, eyeing the commode. Everything considered for him. No need overlooked. Praise, Allah. Why, then, was he feeling less than grateful?

"Please, Gregory, please," Meg pleads, unable to control the tears springing from nowhere. Or hands shaking no matter her efforts to control them. Every nerve ending in her body is alive and screaming for relief. Going beyond the pain in her feet that grows more intense every day.

The years of ballet, crushing her toes so they bear no resemblance to the feet of normal people. Like her mother. Why she thought she would be different, she did not know, but she loved dance – even the kootch dancing when they first came to America.

Mother bore it, so should she, Phantasma was an answer to a prayer – she was a star – Erik saw to that…a promise he kept. If she could not perform, what good was she to him or anyone? She saw the bitterness hardening around her mother when her own pain forced her to teach, needing a staff to merely walk across a room. Nights of hearing her cries as she cleansed the blisters, wrapping her feet in soft cotton if only for one more day, finally ended with a disastrous grand jete, twisting her ankle so badly, even she had to admit it was time to quit.

She would be more careful. Casting the toe shoes aside for heeled boots helped. The pain was not as bad – her toes need not bear the entire weight of her body. Dancing would still be her one joy – the one part of her life still worthy of attention.

Aspirin helped for a time, but then other means to dull the ache were sought. Thanks to another dancer, she discovered codeine –– forget the nausea and unreliability – the pain was salved for a while. Never did she think that the medication Darius gave her for the other pain – the pain in her heart…her soul, really, would also help with the daunting physical distress that was always present…or so it seemed. Dance took on a whole new life for her.

If she laughed at the wrong times or made crude jokes and teased a young boy seeking his affection – perhaps inappropriately. Willing the memory of what she might have done to him disappear. How do you treat a son you would never have? When the other children teased him, she stood up for him – is that not what a mother would do? When he helped your husband, would you not embrace him? She only wished to love him as a son – why did no one see that?

Too many men – too many…what did the nurse who helped her end the pregnancies call them… _results of unfortunate mating_. The number eludes her now – she lost count of both the men and the children she might have borne. Better not to even think about the cramping and the blood and the vague sense of loss. Now the mere idea of performing the act to create a new life, even with Darius, whom she adored, reviles her. So what, she could dance and the memories of the past – the men, the jealousy of Christine – whom she loved…loves…her best friend…her only friend.

Christine has Erik’s love – in those moments when the drugs were in sync – she realized the folly of thinking she loved him – but mother said…and there was no one else. The pain and the loneliness. When Christine came to Phantasma, she was so happy. Her friend. How can you hate a friend?

“Please. I cannot bear THIS!” Her hands grab him by the lapels. “I am going mad.”

Dr. Gangle takes her in his arms, his long arms wrap around her shivering body, holding her close to him as her sobs deepen, her body melting into his. Walking her to the chaise, he helps her sit – giving her his handkerchief. “The master…Erik…said we needed to lower the dose.”

“I do not care what _the master_ said. Do you not understand?” Blue eyes, glistening with angry tears confront him. “Do you really think _the master_ would approve of this?”

“No. No, he would not and neither do I,” he says. “Give me a moment.” Leaving the room, he locks the door behind him.

“Where in hell do you think I am going to go?” The edginess still demands reprieve, she is too worn from hysteria to do more than lie back against the brocade rose-colored fabric, picking at the sequins in one of her new costumes – her favorite, pink satin – silver sequins stitched into the piping – very simple, but with the right lighting…

The tears continue to flow – she wipes a hand across her face, smearing the rouge applied only moments earlier. Struggling to her feet, she goes to the dressing table for a cloth to dry her eyes and wipe her hands. The face in the mirror is a shock. Her golden hair mussed to form a corona around the face of a garish angel – or so it seems to her. “Oh, God – what is happening to me?” A silver-backed brush breaks the image into a fragments. The image of smudged kohl and caked powder spread over various angles and shapes.

“What the…” Gregory says as he re-enters the room.

Meg is bent over the vanity – staring at her distorted reflection.

Rushing to her, he lifts her in his arms away from the damage, returning her to the chaise. Checking carefully, he finds no wounds…no bleeding. “Thank God the glass did not fall out of the frame.”

“What God?”

“For the moment, this is your god, my poor dear girl,” he says, opening his palm to show her the medication. He pours a glass of water from the pitcher sitting on the table next to the chaise.

Taking the pills, she pops them into her mouth.

“It will take a little while,” he says, gently stroking her hand.

Meg nods, taking a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“Next time do not wait until it becomes unbearable,” he says. “We want you to be free of this need, but not this way – not so you are suffering.”

”I wanted to try to do without, to make Darius proud of me.”

“So, now you see what happens.” His angular face softened by a sweet smile – not the garish smile used when portraying the Master of Ceremonies.

“Darius could always tell when it was time – I have no sense about when or how much,” she says. “This was the worst.”

“So we can only do better,” he says, getting up to find another towel for her. “At least you did not damage your pretty new costume.”

“How do you know so much? I mean, I know you were…are a doctor, but…”

“Trained to be a doctor, but people could not take me seriously, pain relief is easy to find when working in hospitals.”

“Yes, I suppose so – I never asked Darius – I just took what he gave me.”

“Your feet – are they bothering you?”

“How did you know?”

“I have worked fairs most of my adult life, all the dancers have problems with their feet or legs – just not so severe as you – the ballet…like your mother.” Kneeling down, he removes her shoes – rearing back at the sight of the mangled toes. “How do you walk?”

Sticking her legs out straight, observing the exposed feet, twisting them back and forth, she muses. “They are quite awful. It was the new shoes – I put on the new shoes. They were too tight. Instead of just taking them off, I thought I would break them in. They broke me.” The medication is doing its job, a blanket of calm replaces the anxiety and dulls the physical pain. She grins at him proud of her little joke.

“Ah, the magic of drugs, you are actually smiling.”

“The mirror – I saw my face.” She turns away from him. “I look like the devil.”

“No. Your face is washable. Go clean yourself up in the bathroom, I will clear up this mess.”

“Mother will be furious – she and Nadir…Nadir, he hates me already…they are meeting with Erik – they will be coming to watch the rehearsal.”

“I will explain,” he says, taking her hand to help her up. “Wash up, we must find other shoes for you to wear…and not just for dancing.”

Turning back as she reaches the bathroom, she says, “You are a doctor – a good one.”

Gregory Armbruster Wright shrugs and ducks his head.

“You are,” she insists. “When you are the M.C., you make people laugh. That is healing, too. Thank you for taking care of me.”

“My pleasure,” he says. “Now go – they are wanting you on stage.”

The wooden work table is laden with a variety of metal bars, scraps of wood, wiring, all manner of fabric from fine cotton to boiled wool to rubber, and a new plastic material he discovered called bakelight – having already made a new mask with it, he is anxious to try using it in other ways. Sheets of paper with designs for the workings of a prosthetic hand were held down by the ever-present assortment of pencils and pens Erik used for his inventions, architectural designs and musical creations.

At the center of the ordered disorder were three plaster casts of a left hand and part of a forearm.

“Damnation – where is the screwdriver,” Erik says to no one, fingering through the toolbox sitting on the bench next to him.

“One might wonder how you create at all with the level of mess you start with, but I have learned not to question you,” Nadir says, walking into the laboratory. As with most other areas of the Eyrie, more defined by whatever can be found on the surfaces than actual physical borders, the room has floor to ceiling windows in addition to skylights providing as much natural light as possible. “I recall what you were able to achieve with candlelight in the bowels of Paris.”

“I did have gaslight, as you recall – you scolded me often enough about my stealing from the city of Paris.”

“Well, you were,” Adele chimes in, crossing the room past the grand piano to the table, fingering different pieces. “Why three?”

“There was a lot of damage to his hand and arm, so each cast is slightly different because of the tissue – I also want to try different materials.”

“Picking up a wooden hand, she says, “I will surmise this will be of little use – it cannot bend.”

“Good for stretching fabric though,” Erik replies, “but, yes, useless for a prosthetic other than that.” Giving up the search for his tool, he gets up from the bench and ushers the couple to yet another table with a tea set and a plate of muffins prepared for them.

“You have time, you know,” Nadir says, placing six lumps of sugar in his cup before adding the tea…another four cubes are set in the saucer. “Darius is healing well, but it has only been a few days.”

“Has he decided about the disposition of the hand?”

“No,” Nadir says. “I do not want to press him, but I understand a decision must be made.”

“It is on ice, but…,” he waves his own hand in the air. “I should like to have a working model – or something functional for him to see. Deformities are never easy to deal with – you see that every day here. In his own way, he has become one of us freaks.”

“I would not go so far as to say that,” Nadir mutters, barely audible.

“Why not, it is the truth…and I assure you at some point he will believe it of himself.”

Nadir simply glares.

Erik’s continues, “I believe having something to show him will cheer him – some deformities are easier to deal with than others.”

“You are right,” Nadir says. “I am sorry if I offended you.”

“Ha!” Erik snorts. “You are never happier than when you are offending me.”

“Not about your…”

“Face? I know, my friend.” Nadir never spoke of his appearance – not when they met in Russia and never when they were together in Persia. Erik suspects the comment disturbed the daroga more than it bothered him. Perhaps he _was_ mildly shocked that this righteous and honorable man might not be the perfect person Erik, in his deepest heart believes him to be. Nadir did, after all have eyes and differences were differences, no matter how open and fair one wished to be. That the topic never arose was a testament to his friend’s affection, which was always a puzzlement to him.

Lord knows, he himself has made many a judgment of someone’s mettle based on appearance…the beautiful vicomte was a perfect example. He manages a chuckle at the thought of Raoul.

The sound relieves the tension of the moment. Nadir visibly relaxes. The two men nod at one another. Their unusual bond still intact, if slightly askew.

“He would like that – seeing his new hand – I think,” Adele interrupts, adding a dollop of cream to her tea, eschewing any sugar.

Erik notes the difference in choices the two made, preparing their tea – the corner of his mouth lifts in a smile. Never would he have matched this pair – not that he was any judge of relationships – most would say the same about him and Christine. Still, if his words were to be believed, the daroga’s Mitra was the only woman who would ever hold his heart – something Erik was all too aware of.

Adele was…to be frank…difficult…much like a prickly pear. A good analogy he thought – rough and not welcoming to touch on the outside, but moderately sweet when the flesh is removed. A surprising source of water and nutrition when one is parched and in need of succor. So Adele was to Nadir. The flashier women who were part and parcel of Phantasma did not appeal to him – despite the attention he received with each visit – and ultimate partnership in the park – his manner was always polite, but distant.

Adele, for her part, was simply herself – pragmatic, determined and frank. All Erik knew was Meg’s father’s name was Louis. He was a musician and died when Meg was about seven. Adele never said much beyond that. Work was her life. Sadly, a choice that led to many of the issues still not completely settled among them, but hers was a nature the Nadir found appealing and, so, a match was made.

Yes, the difference in sugar consumption could certainly describe their situation.

“How is his mood now that he is at least in a home situation?” Erik asks. “Has Meg moved in with you, too?”

“Yes,” Nadir says, taking a piece of muffin. “I was joking about the size of your house, but am now glad we purchased a home with extra bedrooms.”

“To answer your unasked question, Meg is not entirely happy with the situation, but with Darius’ condition right now…well, she is coping,” Adele says.

“I am personally happy to have her somewhere I can keep an eye on her,” Nadir says.

Adele’s cross look has him dunk one of his sugar cubes into his tea before taking a bite. “Truth be told, she is actually doing better – she has her dance numbers which keep her busy, but taking care of him has brought out another side to her.”

“I will grant you that.”

“Thank you. I should like to think I did not raise a complete reprobate.”

“The medication?” Erik asks, keeping his distance from the exchange. He suggested Meg continue receiving whatever drug Darius had her on. There was no need to put her…or the rest of them through a withdrawal process. There was simply too much going on and it could be dangerous for her. So long as she was on a schedule, he hoped she would be fine.

“Locked up,” Nadir says. “Gregory has also moved in – it seemed easier – like I said – buying the larger house was a brilliant idea. He checks the dressings and gives both of them their medication twice a day – then comes to work here…and keeps an eye on Meg.”

“That is why she is doing better – part of the problem was no set pattern of what she was taking when,” Adele says. “No one was paying attention to her.”

“Now she has her own personal baby sitter…Adele, she is not a child…” Nadir growls and gets up from the table and walks to one of the windows facing the sea. “I cannot continue to have this discussion.”

“What do you want me to do?” Adele follows him, touching him on the shoulder. “Tell me. I am sorry.”

He turns to take her in his arms, pressing his lips against her forehead. “I am sorry, too. Now we do what we must.”

“What about Darius…if all of you are here?”

“A friend I made in the Persian community here. His daughter wants to be a nurse – lovely girl.”

“Changing the subject…” Erik says.

“Blessedly,” Adele responds, breaking away from the embrace with her husband.

“The park opening?”

“Going well – we shall be ready. Luna and Steeplechase took in most of the little people and we were able to provide jobs and housing for the others including some of the workers from Dreamland.”

“Good – maybe we can take a walk around…” Erik says. “I could use some time away from all this.”

Adele starts to pick up the dirty dishes…

“Leave them, I will have someone from the kitchen come up,” Erik says taking his hat from its peg and leads them out the door, closing it behind them. “Hopefully any new drama will be confined to the stage now.”

As the lock catches, the phone rings.


	9. Chapter 9

“Sitting here is accomplishing nothing,” Christine says to herself. Despite her attempts to sit in chairs where rising does not present a problem, this past week has been particularly difficult. The baby has been moving, trying to get comfortable in his or her confined space. She recalled Emilie’s movement, Gustave’s less so – hard to think of him as a baby – he was such a young man now. Too much for her taste, to be honest. Why did he have to grow up? What would her life have been without his talent and his sweetness?

Making small circles with her fingertips over the protrusion often settled the little one, so they could both be more comfortable – today the trick is not working – she wished Erik was here to sing or speak to the baby.

“Gustave,” Christine calls out, hoping the boy hears her and responds. His leaving in a huff does not bode well for his returning, but she must try. The last shift of the baby tells her time is near and calling Erik, the doctor…and the midwife, both…her sense was they both must be here and the summons must be done now.

“Oh, dear.” The warm fluid flowing from her, being absorbed by and soaking the blue dress was a shock. “Be careful what you wish for.”

Looking down at the floor, she offers a short prayer of thanksgiving her water did not break on the lovely Aubusson rug – sage green and peach. Her favorite – reminding her of the home of her childhood. She remembers being so excited – the colors were those in the afghan from her own baby days used for Gustave and Emilie. It would be a pity to ruin it with the birth of a new child.

“Gustave!” She calls out loud…In her mind, however, she reaches out to Erik. _The baby. I need you. Please come.”_

Gustave appears. “What do you want?” he demands, feet planted firmly in the doorway, not venturing any further into the room, arms folded in front of him. “I do not wish to discuss Meg or my _desires_ with you or anyone else, so do not think that by telling Papa, I will be forthcoming…” The pained look on his mother’s face interrupts his monologue. “What is wrong?”

“Call your father – tell him to come home immediately – the baby is coming.”

“Right, oh Maman, I am sorry for speaking to you so rudely.” He moves toward her, hands extended, bending to gain her forgiveness.

Waving him off, she says, “Time enough for that later – right now I need your father…and the midwife… and the doctor.”

“Correct, I shall call Papa right now,” he says, turning to go to the library to the telephone.

“Goose, come back,” Emilie calls to him as he runs down the hallway. “wanna play tag.”

“Not now, Emi, I have to telephone Papa.”

“He at work.”

“Yes, but he must come home, Maman…”

“Where she?”

“Go back to Helen, tell her to meet me in the conservatory.”

“Why?”

“Emi, just go.”

“Where Maman?” she cries. “I want Maman.”

Helen appears in the doorway of the dining room. “Emi, where have you gone to?” Her eyes widen as Gustave points back to the Conservatory, mouthing the word _baby._ “I must telephone my father, could you take care of Emi and the twins – or Julia – meet me in the sun room?”

“Of course – I will send Julia right now,” she says, scooping Emilie into her arms.

Gustave ducks into the library leaving the toddler with young maid.

Emi pushes away from her, wiggling her bottom to get away. “Want Maman. Want Goose.”

“Maman is resting and wants you to do so as well,” Helen tells her. “Henry and Margaret were looking for you so you could all cuddle together. Does that not sound nice?”

“Maman sleeping?”

“She is resting.”

“Why Goose call Papa?”

“So your Papa knows your Maman is resting.”

Emilie squints her golden eyes at Helen, taking her measure as only a three year old can. “Can have cookie before nap?”

“A small one.”

“k.”

“Answer.” Gustave paces the floor the length of the telephone wire.

Gangle pulls the glass tubes of codeine and phenobarbital tablets he carries with him whenever he is monitoring Meg from his pocket. The sight of her so out of control disturbs him. While accustomed to her outbursts and erratic behavior, this seems new and, frankly, frightening.

The Master said a minimal dose – no more than ½ pill each. He had dosed her earlier and, from what he just observed, that smaller dose did no good. He was becoming too affected by her – too many reminders of his own past with drinking. The need for sleep when it wouldn’t come after long stretches of studying – then the abuse of his fellow students. That he made it through was a miracle, but the inability to keep and treat patients because of his appearance drove him more deeply into self-pity and a way to deal with his depression. Although drugs could be accessed, he discovered whiskey – more easily attainable and legal – but addictive nonetheless and still his one true love…a cruel mistress.

He was sober for years now, but what he was seeing in Meg was so familiar. So self-absorbed. So unable to take responsibility. He supposed she was dealing with real pain – the dancers were always dealing with pain – their feet, their backs and joints, which likely started this downward spiral. But none of them went about attacking children…he would never forget the night on the pier. Even if she was being contained, she was still dangerous – if only to herself – he would do his best to keep her under control. The Master and Mrs. Christine deserved that from him…and young Gustave was his pride and joy.

How many pills? He picks up the phone at the stage manager’s desk and lifts the receiver. “Hello, Central. Get me Waterfront 333.”

“That line is busy, sir. Please try your call later” was the reply of the female operator, with no sense of apology as he was disconnected.

“I must calm her down,” he says out loud, walking back to her dressing room. The sight of the broken mirror made the decision for him.

_“What the…” Gregory says as he re-enters the room._

_Meg is bent over the vanity – staring at her distorted reflection._

_Rushing to her, he lifts her in his arms away from the damage, returning her to the chaise. Checking carefully, he finds no wounds…no bleeding. “Thank God the glass did not fall out of the frame.”_

_“What God?”_

_“For the moment, this is your god, my poor dear girl,” he says, opening his palm to show her the medication. He pours a glass of water from the pitcher sitting on the table next to the chaise._

_Taking the pills, she pops them into her mouth._

_“It will take a little while,” he says, gently stroking her hand._

_Meg nods, taking a deep breath. “Thank you.”_

He would, of course, have to explain to the master and her family. He did try to call. What more could he do – she was on the verge of destroying herself.

The tears would not stop falling, between the pain in his arm and the humiliation that could only become worse when Yasmine returned. He should have asked for her help before she left or waited for her to come back. Just some assistance to get out of the bed to the chair not a foot away and return without falling. Too many days in bed…too weak…any other time, he could have managed.

“Yasmine,” he called, forcing himself to shout. He could not stay here on the floor. The stump was sore, but otherwise nothing seemed out of sorts – a small amount of blood stained the end of the bandaging – more pink than red – was that typical? Gangle was changing his dressings while he slept, he had no idea if this was new damage or normal. “Yasmine – please come. I need help.”

The girl’s brown eyes widened at the sight of Darius lying on the floor. “What happened? Are you in pain?” she asks, helping him to his feet.

“No. Yes. Yes, my arm…mostly my pride.”

“Did you use the commode?”

“Yes…thankfully. When I turned away, I got dizzy. I reached out with an arm no longer there.”

“Let me help you.”

With both their efforts, she is able to help him back into bed. “Your bandage…”

“The stump hit the floor when I fell,” he says. “Is bleeding normal? I never seem to be awake when my dressings are changed.”

“No, there should be no bleeding.”

“Can you take care of it?”

“Probably, the bleeding seems minimal, but Mr. Khan told me call Mr. Saint-Rien if there were any difficulties. I do not wish to create any harm.”

“Call him first then,” Darius sighs, throwing his head back on the pillow, turning away as she leaves the room again.

“Stop,” Erik says to Nadir and Adele. “Did you hear something?”

“No,” Nadir says shaking his head.

“I may have heard the telephone bell,” Adele offers.

“Something is wrong,” Erik says. He turns back to the heavy wooden door to the Eyrie, presses the key into the lock.

_Erik, I need you, please come._

“Christine is in distress.”

He grabs the phone, “Christine?”

“No, sir, it is I Yasmine. Is this Mr. Khan?”

Erik holds the receiver out to Nadir “Your nurse.”

“What is it,” He asks. “Is there a problem with Darius?

“He fell…”

“What…how?”

“He used the chamber pot and slipped when returning to bed.”

“You did not help him.”

“He said he would be fine…I wished to allow him his privacy.”

“But he was not fine.”

Adele takes him by the arm. “Why are you being so harsh with her?”

“Darius fell after using the commode.”

“Instead of yelling find out why she felt the need to call instead of just dealing with helping him up – she is perfectly capable of doing that.”

“My friend, please calm down,” Erik adds. “Whatever has happened can be remedied.”

“When you thought it was Christine a moment ago, you were bordering irrational.” Handing the phone to Adele, he says, “Here find out what is wrong. I am no longer in control of my senses. I do not wish to offend her.”

“I understand Darius fell…you were able to help him up?” Adele asks, side-eyeing Nadir.

“Yes, Madame Giry, but his stump is bleeding– not much, but I was concerned about changing the dressing myself…if his sutures were damaged…”

“I understand. Hold on a moment.” Turning to Erik she says, “There is some bleeding from the stump.”

Erik frowns. “That is not good.”

“I will get Gregory and drive him back to the house,” Nadir says, taking the receiver back from her. “I will be there with Dr. Gangle shortly…just keep him comfortable.” After a brief pause, he says, “Thank you for your concern and calling.” With that he ends the call. “Better?”

“What about Meg? He is helping Meg.” Adele says.

“Meg be damned,” he replies. “She should be rehearsing – the only time she seems normal. You stay here…or get Squelch to play nursemaid. I am frankly tired of our lives revolving around your daughter.”

“Yes. Yes. I know. That has become your only topic of conversation these days.” Tapping her cane on the floor, biting her lower lip. “I suppose I can stay – but she would likely prefer Squelch,” Adele concedes. “Come, no time to waste.”

Erik hangs back.

“Are you coming?”

“No, I need to call home.” While that was the truth, the bickering and the constant distress over Darius and Meg was wearing on him. Perhaps not having a family throughout his life was a gift. He suspects Nadir may be in agreement with him on that point. What to do about Meg was a concern, but at the moment, he really did not care what happened to her.

He waits until the door is closed and the grumbling no longer audible to pick up the phone. “Central, please call Bayside 123.”

Gustave releases the receiver as if burned, having just hung up to have it ring again. Snatching it up, he asks, “Papa?”

“Did you call?”

“Yes. The line was busy. Maman said the baby is coming. You must come home.”

“The number for the doctor and midwife are next to the phone. Call them and say I will pick them up.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Help your mother to the birthing room. Where are the children and Helen?”

“She is putting them down for their naps – Julia is here, too.”

“Get one of them to help with your mother. I will be there as quickly as I can.”

The hotel concierge looks through his pince-nez glasses, taking in the well-dressed man repeatedly picking up the desk telephone, speaking into it, then putting it down again. Each time he hangs up, the receiver is replaced with a shade more emphasis than the time before. Someone impatient and not used to waiting. Aristocrat he suspects – the cut of his clothing is European, a diamond and sapphire tie pin centered on the pin-striped silk cravat, the small mustache perfectly trimmed. The gray homburg reveals only blond sideburns with a touch a silver.

He was not on duty when the man checked in and the new arrivals take up most of his time. The season would be especially good – the fire at Dreamland was bringing in more business than anticipated. Time enough later to review the registrations for identities real and false.

The man looked vaguely familiar – his behavior certainly was. Wealth often demands courtesies above and beyond what the hotel offered…and the telephone company it would seem.

“Merde.”

Ah, French – so especially impatient. It was coming back to him. Mrs. Christine’s first husband…what was his title…Baron? No. Vicomte. Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. Yes, this was going to be an exciting season.

“I wish to call Bayside 123. Is there some sort of problem? I have been informed over the past ten minutes the connection could not be made.”

“The party you are trying to reach is using their telephone, sir.”

“Can you not break in?”

“No, sir.”

“Cannot or will not.”

“I am not allowed to disconnect a call because another caller wishes to break in.”

Once again the receiver is replaced with less than a gentle touch.

Without waiting more than a few seconds, once again, he picks up the receiver and once again gives the number for Erik and Christine’s home.

“At last.”

“Papa?” Gustave answers. “I was able to reach the doctor and Mrs. Malloy.”

“Excuse me, is this the residence of Christine Daae?” Raoul asks.

“Who is this?” Gustave feels a chill run up his back. The voice…the accent mainly, but the tone. No one asks for Christine Daae when they call here.

“Gustave?”

“Yes…Raoul?”

“Not Pere?”

“You are not my father,” Gustave responds, a tremor in his voice to match the shaking of his hands. “Maman cannot come to the phone. I will have Papa call you back if you wish to leave a number – he will be here shortly.”

“What is this about a doctor? Is someone ill?”

“I will have Papa call you. Please give me your number.”

“I am at the Phantasma Hotel.”

“I will let him know.” Completely unnerved, he drops the receiver into the cradle.

“Gustave,” Christine calls from the conservatory. “Did you reach Papa and the doctor?”

“Yes, Maman…and Mrs. Malloy,” he says, running down the hall, returning to the sun room.

“Who was calling then?”

“Nobody.”

“You are pale as a ghost and not a good liar, my son – thankfully.”

Taking a moment to chew his lip, he answers, “Raoul. He is at the hotel.”

“I see.” Leaning back into her chair, she indicates he sit down.

“Did you know he was coming here?” He chooses to pace the floor.

“Yes, but not for another week or more – your Papa and I wanted to discuss it with you.”

“So you _were_ going to tell me?” Pivoting, he turns to face her, arms akimbo.

“I am going to forget the tone you have been taking with me today because of everything that has happened these past days, so long as it stops right now,” she says, her own tone hard. “Take your hands off your hips and sit down, please.”

Gustave stands rigid in front of her, his face in full pout.

Christine sucks in her breath and presses a hand against her belly.

Gustave melts, falling to his knees in front of her. “I am sorry – what can I do?”

“Hold my hand – I may squeeze it very hard,” she grimaces.

“Squeeze as hard as you like – I can take it.”

“Good – consider it a spanking,” she jokes. “Raoul sent us a telegram that he was coming here. He did not say why. Papa and I were going to ask if you wished to see him, as I said.”

“He does not belong here,” he says, cringing slightly at the pressure she applies.

“He can travel wherever he wishes,” she says, brushing the thick brown hair from his forehead. “For the moment, however, we have other matters to attend to.”

A rustling in the doorway attracts their attention. “Ah, here is our Julia.”

“Helen said to help you to the birthing room,” a tall blonde girl with pale blue eyes says offering a small curtsey.

“Yes. If you and Gustave each take an arm, I think I should be able to walk,” she says, lifting her arms.

Taking the direction, Gustave and Julia exchange a glance, their eyes locking for a brief moment before both pairs of cheeks turn bright red. Quickly looking away, each takes one of Christine’s arms to help her stand.

“I do hope your Papa arrives soon. Once you get me settled, perhaps you can play your violin for me – I think I should like that.”

“Yes, Maman.”

“You will love the sound of Gustave’s violin, Julia.”

“Yes, Mrs. Christine.”

They walk slowly, but steadily down the hallway. Stopping every few steps for Christine to catch her breath. “Wait until you hear Erik and Gustave together. They were such a big help at Emilie’s birth.”

“I look forward to it.”

A groan escapes her lips. “I look forward to this being over.” Christine forces a small chuckle. “Here we are. Let the games begin.”

Voices in the conservatory draw their attention. “Christine…Gustave?”

“Here, Erik.”

“It is really time?” he asks, trotting toward them. A mustachioed man in a grey suit and felt top hat, carrying a black bag, and a woman in her middle years, carrot-colored hair tucked under a blue felt bonnet, follow close behind.

“It is really time,” she says, holding a hand out to him. “I am so glad you are here.”

When he presses his lips to her hand, Gustave and Julia step back, allowing him to lift her into his arms. “The only place I ever care to be is with you.”


	10. Things New and Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New beginnings for some of our little family.

“Takes after his father even more than I recalled,” Raoul mutters as he replaces the receiver in the cradle. His eyes take in the lobby of the Phantasma Hotel. It is much as he remembered – surprisingly elegant considering the man who designed it, or so he was told. Master architect, composer, musician, blah, blah, blah – all the malarkey the Giry woman told him about. What he found odd, if fascinating, was the number of little people…dwarfs and midgets…milling about. He read that the entire village at Dreamland was burned in the fire and assumed many received shelter here. Mr. Y, as he was calling himself three years ago, must feel really at home in this land of freaks.

 _Yet, Christine chose him over you._ _Twice._ The voice in his head taunted. The thought was pushed aside. Surveying the room, he took note of the bar, but rejected the idea of taking a drink to bolster his confidence. A lesson he learned only too well. Much as he might crave a drink – the events of that September night when Meg Giry lost her mind and he lost his wife and child – taught him liquor was not the answer to his problems.

When he first learned of the fire at Coney Island, he held a faint hope that this carnival was the one destroyed. Not that he wished harm come to Christine and Gustave – it would simply be ironic that the minor fire created after the debacle of Don Juan Triumphant would also consume this creation of the Phantom of the Opera. Phantom of the Opera, indeed. Without realizing it, his gloved hand reaches to stroke his throat. Realizing what he is doing, he drops his and quickly to his side and looks to the concierge.

“Excuse me, good sir. Might you know where I can find Mr. Y?”

“You might inquire at the theater,” the balding man answers. “He is usually at his office there during the week.”

“So he no longer lives here?”

“No, sir.”

“The telephone number Bayside 123?”

“His home.”

“Ah. What about Waterfront 333?”

“That would be his office.”

“Yes, well, there was no answer when I called, so I shall continue to try his home.” Tipping his hat, he offers the concierge a thank you and turns from the desk, once again eyeing the lounge. As he steps forward, one of the little people approaches him.

“Vicomte de Chagny, is that you?” Gloria Fleck asks, garbed in royal blue, a feather boa around her neck and a sequined ribbon wound through her hair, she walks toward him, her rolling gait affected further by a decided limp in her right leg. As with most little people, she does not look her age and has the appearance of a child, still the pain on her face is obvious reflects the obvious.

“Yes, and you are?”

“Gloria Fleck – we met the night you arrived here at Coney Island that first night – Dr. Gangle, Mr. Squelch and I accompanied you to the hotel from the boat.”

“Of course – the coach drawn by a crystal unicorn – quite the vehicle,” he says. His memory of that night is clear. Nevertheless, he was trained not to give those not of his class the upper hand by allowing them to think they were important enough to remember. As for that trip, there was very little he did not recall – despite the amount of alcohol he consumed. This woman, however, does not deserve his scorn – as he recalls, she was quite helpful during the shooting incident.

Phillippe told him courting Christine was a mistake – a member of the lower classes. Someone of her ilk would hurt him eventually. When he returned home without a wife and child, Phillippe never missed an opportunity to remind him of his folly with the singer. Nevertheless, he suspects this woman has the ear of the monster and being courteous to her might get him an audience with the elusive man.

“You were most helpful to the Vicomtesse and myself upon our arrival,” he says. “I also remember your kindness that night when Miss Giry was, shall we say, upset.”

“Upset, indeed,” Miss Fleck snorts. “Lost her mind…thank God our young Gustave was saved by Mr. Khan.”

Raoul cannot help but laugh at the woman’s boldness. Some of the tension in his body is relieved and he relaxes enough to say, “Yes, thank God. This Mr. Khan is still here?”

“Yes – everything is much the same,” she says, looking up at him, hands planted on her hips. “If I may be so bold as to ask – I find that being direct saves a lot of time – why are _you_ here?”

“Yes, that is quite bold, but true enough about saving time – I should like to meet with Mr. Y and my attempts to reach him by telephone have failed so far.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“To be honest, yes and no. I arrived earlier than I advised, so I suppose the answer to that question is, in fact, no – not at the present time.”

“He should be at the theater now – we are opening this weekend. If you would like, I can accompany you there. Things are quite hectic and you may find yourself moving scenery, despite your fine clothing.”

Raoul rewards her with a chuckle. At least his presence is not being met with complete scorn…at least not so far. “There was no answer to his phone in the office.”

“It is possible he is in the theater itself – making certain things are in order. The fire this past weekend put everyone on edge and we are making adaptations to include performers and workers from Dreamland,” she says, leading him toward the door to the street. “He, Madame Giry and Mr. Khan…all of us have been quite busy. Still, I am certain he would wish to see you.”

“You are most kind.”

“Follow me.” Indicating her legs, she says, “If you do not mind, could we take a rolling chair.”

“Of course not.” Monitoring his pace, not to walk too fast, the tall gentleman in the top hat and little woman walk together out the front door of the Phantasma Hotel.

Nadir pushes through the door to Darius’ room, almost knocking her down as her passes Yasmine, who rises from her chair when he walks in.

“I am so happy you are here,” she says, holding on to the back of her chair to keep her balance. “You, as well, Dr. Gangle.”

“How did this happen? You are here to prevent such accidents,” Nadir growls.

Yasmine bows her head. “It was not my wish for him to fall. I placed the commode as close to the bed as possible. I wished for him to have his dignity. I apologize for my mistake.”

“Please do not blame her,” Darius says. “It was my fault. She offered her assistance, but I was embarrassed. It is bad enough I needed a bed pan these past days…”

Gangle walks past Nadir to the armoire doubling as a medicine cabinet, holding all the supplies used for the young Persian’s care. “What is done is done. Arguing will not help the healing – if anything it makes things worse.” His look at Nadir is hard.

Nadir sighs and nods. “You are right, of course.”

Too many memories have come rushing back since the fire and the accident. Mitra’s death was not violent, unless you consider her own body attacking and destroying her. Reza was blessed with Erik’s ability to both soothe him with his voice and end his suffering with his medicines. The threat of losing Darius – who he loved as much as any son – was overwhelming. That he was so entangled with Meg only added to his stress.

As much as he loves Adele, and he does love her – who has such fortune to have two women come into your life who can touch you so deeply – her daughter was another story entirely. He supposes if he was introduced to the troubled young woman under other circumstances – her attack on the boy was never far from his mind – things might be different. But, things are what they are and despite Darius’ insistence on being her caregiver – he will never trust her.

Adele is surprisingly tolerant of his rants, but he knows there will come a point in time when she will grow tired of his obvious dislike and feel compelled to make a choice between the two of them. The fact she blames herself for Meg’s fall into the hell she lives in, tells him he needs to control himself where the girl…woman is concerned.

The same applies to Darius. Continuing to vent his rage will only find him alone. Why could Darius not love someone like Yasmine? The vague hope, one he refuses to acknowledge outright, that his friend’s daughter would somehow bring some calm and love into the boy’s life, is now damaged with his outburst toward her.

Offering a weak smile to Yasmine, he says, “I apologize – I just feel so helpless myself.”

“Your upset is understandable and much greater than my own.”

“Yasmine, could you assist me, please,” Gregory asks. “We need to remove the dressing and address the bleeding. I need a suture tray set up – antiseptic, gauze, bandaging.”

“Of course.”

While she gathers the necessary supplies from the armoire, Gangle removes the soiled dressings and examines the wound.

Nadir turns away. Despite his years as sheriff and observing the tortures at the Shah’s palace, the wound of his boy is more than he can bear. “How does it look?”

“Not bad. Not bad at all.” Gangle examines the stump carefully. “A slight pulling of one or two sutures. The bleeding such as it was has already stopped. I just need to clean the wound and replaced the bandages.”

Darius smiles. “Praise, Allah.”

Nadir releases the breath he was holding. “Praise, Allah, and thank you, Gregory.”

“I did nothing but examine the wound.”

“You helped save much of his arm…you and Erik,” Nadir says. “I will be forever grateful.”

“It was my pleasure,” Gangle replies. “Medicine is my first love – I have a most fascinating and rewarding life. We just have to give this time to heal and then a new hand.”

“A new hand?” Darius says. “What do you mean?

“Erik is creating a prosthesis for you,” Nadir tells him. “Before we came here, he was showing us some of his work.”

“How?”

“He creates all those automatons – he is using all his skills to make you as whole as possible,” Gangle says.

“I do not know what to say,” Darius falls back onto the pillow. “A new hand.”

“He is working hard to have something to show you soon…to lift your spirits.”

“This news…” Tears fill his eyes – he holds his good hand out to Nadir. “I have no words.”

“It may be several months,” Gangle says. “The healing process will guide us.”

“We have good friends in our life,” Nadir says.

Yasmine clears her throat, placing the tray of supplies on the bed table in front of Dr. Gangle.

“Yes, thank you,” Gangle says. “For now, we need to re-bandage the stump.”

“A new hand.”

“Yes, my son…a new hand.”

Erik carries Christine into the birthing room, setting her down next to the bed he designed after a visit to Dr. Turner’s office. Copying the concept of a birthing chair, he made a bed that was adjustable, so she would not be lying down flat, stirrups were added to support her feet, easing the way for the baby to be born.

“You should patent this,” Dr. Turner said. “Although I doubt many people will create rooms for birthing. I would prefer she be in hospital, but…”

“One would think I was going to be having at least a dozen children to justify this arrangement,” Christine laughs, patting Erik’s cheek as she removes her arms from around his neck.

“If this is the only other child we will create, I prefer my wife be in her own home…where else would she be able to hear her son play violin?”

“And have her husband be present, as well,” Mrs. Molloy comments. Her bonnet removed and hung in the armoire along with her cape and the doctor’s hat and coat, reveals more of the frizzy bright orange hair. She tucks it under a white mob cap that matches the long apron covering her gray dress. “Have as many babies as you want Mrs. Christine, I should never tire of visiting your home.”

“I need to get out of these clothes. My water broke…” Christine says, a note of apology in her voice. This is all for her, but the attention is less than appealing. At the moment she only wants to have this all be over with. The dress and her undergarments are sticking to her legs and the contractions grow stronger. She hopes that means a short labor. Time diminished her recollection of the pain, but now, as this little one is preparing to enter the world, she is reminded only too well.

“My word, why did you not say so,” Mrs. Molloy says, pushing Erik aside to walk Christine behind the dressing screen. “One would think this was an afternoon social with all the chit chat going on…and the number of men occupying this space. Birthing is woman’s work.”

Feeling even more out of place after those comments, but determined to maintain some sort of control, Erik says, “Thank you for your assistance, Julia.” Walking her to the door, he says, “Gustave, it appears that the room is in good order, although, perhaps more clean toweling?”

Dr. Turner smiles and says, “It does not hurt to have fresh water prepared, I assume that the room has been sterilized.”

“Yes, doctor, all your precautions were followed. The Kelly pad is in place. The bathroom has hot running water and disinfectants for yours and Mrs. Molloy’s use,” Erik says.

“All right – I need to get my violin anyway,” he says. “Can Julia come back and listen?”

“No.” The word comes out blunt and uncaring. Seeing the hurt look in the boy’s eyes, he says, “As Mrs. Molloy has so astutely noted, this delivery room is rapidly becoming very crowded and less sterile than would be advisable.” The frown on Dr. Turner’s face, Erik continues, “Perhaps, you can sit in the hallway and play. Once your mother is out of her clothing and into a more comfortable gown, she may not wish to be surrounded by a lot of people.”

“It is…and if I had the gumption, I would have you leave as well,” she sniffs, as she ushers Christine back to the bed.”

Erik smirks.

“Maman?”

“Best leave, my son,” she says with a grimace.

“But I was here for Emilie…”

“Your mother is in great discomfort right now, young man,” Dr. Turner says.

“You can come back…leave for now – I should actually like some privacy. You are such a young man now…” How can she explain…bad enough the doctor is a man…the idea of her son seeing her…well, it just would not do. The look in his hazel eyes breaks her heart, especially since they were arguing. She looks to Erik for help.

“Mr. Saint Rien, perhaps you might wish to accompany your son?” Dr. Turner hints.

“No, I want my husband to stay,” Christine says. “He calms me. I need him with me. Gustave, play for me…outside the door.”

“Yes, Maman, whatever you wish.”

“I shall stay out of your way…and will keep my opinions to myself,” Erik says “We had this discussion before as I recall…”

“Very well,” the doctor sighs.

At the sound of the bell on the telephone, Gustave stops playing. Putting the violin down on the chair he set up for himself in the hallway outside the birthing room, he runs to the library to answer the call. “Hello?”

“Gustave, it is Nadir.”

“No baby yet, sir.”

“I shall let everyone know…are you playing for your mother?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take a break, it has been several hours, has it not?”

“I am fine – Maman says it helps.”

“Tell your mother and father we are thinking of them.”

“Yes, sir. Good-night.” Just as he replaces the receiver, the bell signals another caller. “Hello?”

“Ah, Gustave, it seems I reached you again.”

“Maman cannot speak to you now,” the boy responds, a frown creasing his brow.

“I was hoping to talk to your father.”

“He is busy. I will tell him you called.”

“Did you tell him I called earlier?”

“No. I said he is busy. I will tell him later.”

“Now look here, young man, I wish to speak to Erik…now, it is important.”

“What he is doing is more important than anything you want,” Gustave says.

“And what might that be?” Raoul’s voice takes on a cajoling tone.

“He is with…” Gustave stops himself from continuing. “None of your business.”

“You little brat.”

“You drunk.” With that, he drops the receiver and leaves the room – ignoring the repeated ringing of the bell. Despite his youth, sitting in the hard backed chair for the past five hours has him fatigued and his gait is slow. In his weariness he almost revealed what was a happy event for the family – something Raoul would no doubt ruin if he knew. Why did he have to show up again? Now? Ever? What does he want anyway? Talking about family. We are happy. I hope Papa makes him go away again.

“Can I get you some tea…or root beer?” Julia asks from the end of the hall near the kitchen.

Gustave feels a rush of warmth at the sight of her in the blue dress she has changed into from her maid’s uniform. Her blonde hair falls loose around her shoulders, freed from the pins keeping it secure under the cap she wears when working. “A root beer would be nice.”

Holding up a bottle, with a small smile curving her pink lips, she walks toward him.

Gustave grins. “You are a mind reader,” he says. “I shall have to tell Papa of your gift.”

Looking down, her checks flush pink. “When I saw the bottles in the ice box, I thought you were the member of the family who liked this drink.”

Taking the bottle from her, he takes a swig. “I did not realize how thirsty I was.”

“I heard you stop playing. Are you going to play some more?”

He nods. “I had to answer the telephone.”

“You are very talented.” Keeping her eyes down, she rocks back and forth, hands clasped behind her back.

“We are all very musical – my grandfather was a violinist. Papa plays, too.”

“Sometimes I sing,” she confesses. “I am not as gifted as your mother – no one is, but I like to sing.”

“Maybe Papa can teach you…or Maman, she helps some of the singers at the theater.”

“Aaaah.” Even through the heavy wooden door, Christine’s cry shakes both the young people. Each time her cries sound through the door, Gustave cringes, frustrated he can do nothing to help but play. His fingers are sore from pressing the strings, neck stiff from cradling the violin under his chin. Yet, she would calm when he began a new song…so he played. This time, though, was different. Please let this be over.

Gustave knocks on the door, before opening it to stick his head in. “Maman, are you all right?” All he can see is her face, eyes squeezed shut, her mouth in a grimace. Erik sits next to the bed, his back to the door, blocking his son’s view of most of the rest of her body. 

“Not now, Gustave, please close the door,” Erik says, turning his head toward him. “The baby is near…”

“Play for me…” Christine whispers. Perspiration glistens on her face drawn with fatigue, dampening her hair so it appears to be two different shades. Still her grimace becomes a smile for him. The smile is short-lived – he closes his eyes as she throws her head back, another cry of pain escaping her lips.

“Gustave, you must leave,” Erik says, adding gently, “Play the new piece you wrote – it will be perfect.”

“Yes, Papa,” Gustave replies. “I love you, Maman.”

“I love you, too.” Her eyes shift from the sight of her son leaving the room to look at Erik. “And you.”

“Breathe, use your training, concentrate.”

“The baby has crowned,” Dr. Turner announces. “It should not be much longer now. When I tell you to push…push.”

Situated at the foot of the bed, he stands between Christine’s bent legs. Maintaining her modesty, the blankets cover her private area. Touch guides him. Mrs. Molloy waits at his side, observing his technique.

“I may need a forceps.”

“No,” the midwife responds. “I can see the baby’s head, there is no need for forceps.”

“You are challenging me?”

“Yes, I am – I have been birthing babies for thirty years – I was one of those who taught you. The baby is fine as it is.”

“This is no time for arguing,” Erik cuts in. “You are both here because I wanted the best for Christine. Just get on with it.”

The professionals exchange a look of minor contempt before resuming their concentration on the baby.

“His head is clear,” Dr. Turner allows.

Christine pushes.

“No, stop,” Dr. Turner commands. “Do not push. There is a problem.”

“What is wrong?” Erik asks, craning his neck to have a better line of vision to what the doctor is doing.

Christine tugs at his hand, pulling him back. “What is it?”

Bringing her hand to his lips, he watches the midwife as she pushes the doctor aside.

Mrs. Molloy pushes closer and lifts up the blanket to expose the baby. “A nuchal cord.”

“What is that?” Erik asks, unable to sit any longer, jumping up to find out what is happening. The baby’s head is clear of birth canal, but a length of what looks like a smooth rope is wrapped around its neck. “How did that happen? Can it be resolved?” Is this some sort of horrible punishment for his past actions? _Dear God, if you exist, she does not deserve this. Those heinous acts were mine. Do not allow this child to be strangled. Please._

“What is wrong?” Christine asks. “You said the head was out.”

“We just need to remove the cord.” Mrs. Molloy says, her tone matter-of-fact as she pushes Erik back to his seat. “This happens quite often,” she assures them. 

“Fortunately it is loose, must have just happened during the last turn in the womb – I can slip it off easily,” the doctor’s voice is calm and reassuring. Placing his hand around the baby’s neck, he lifts the cord over the head and sets it to one side to be clamped and cut once the delivery is complete as is usual. “There. Done. Now you can push.”

“Thank God,” Erik whispers. “Thank God.”

Gathering whatever residual strength she has, her face screwed up, fingers digging into Erik’s palm as she pushes.

“You did it, Missus,” Mrs. Molloy laughs.

“A boy,” Dr. Turner announces.

Mrs. Molloy offers a small blanket to wrap around the wrinkled red bundle. He checks the nose and mouth, clearing some of the amniotic fluid, gently rubbing the baby’s back.

Confirming his successful passage into the world, the newborn wails loudly.

“Good, no damage done by the nuchal. He is breathing on his own.

Satisfied, he swaddles the baby, nodding to Mrs. Molloy. “Good job.”

Both Erik and Christine look at the doctor and midwife expectantly – neither of them indicates there is any problem with the baby – there are no looks to the side to avoid eye contact. No reflexive moves of distaste.

“Can I see him?” Christine asks, holding out her arms.

“Of course, of course,” Dr. Turner says, carrying the baby to her.

Erik leans over her as she opens the blanket. Her fingers stroke the tiny face, tracing the pale eyebrows, the perfect nose…rosebud lips making a sucking noise, a bubble of spittle sits on the tip of his tongue. For his part, Erik runs a thumb over the tiny ears to chuck his new son under the chin. Both of them take inventory of fingers and toes – everything being in order.

Christine holds the child up. “Check the back of his neck – that is where the other children…”

“Nothing…just normal skin.” Erik sighs. “No marks – just the same wrinkled skin Emilie had.”

“It would not have mattered,” Christine says, wrapping the blanket around the little bundle.

“No, I would not love him less, but for his sake, I am happy.”

“Congratulations to both of you,” Dr. Turner says.

“He is beautiful – thank you for including me,” adds Mrs. Molloy. “I best tend to cleaning things up in here. That includes you, Missus.”

“Gustave,” Erik calls out. “Come see your new brother.”

Opening the door a crack, Gustave says, “A boy?”

“Yes. A boy. Come in. Come in.” Erik puts an arm around Gustave, letting him see the baby. “Give your mother a kiss, then call Nadir and the Trio to let them know.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you for the music,” Christine says, the suffering on her face gone, replaced by the serenity that is her hallmark – the gentle mother and loving wife.

“Yes, Maman,” he replies. “I shall call Nadir and Squelch and Gangle and Miss Fleck. I must tell Emilie. Julia, Helen and the twins are going to be so excited. They are all falling asleep at the kitchen table waiting. A boy. We have a boy.”

“My son. Our son – another son. Erik says. “We are truly blessed.”

“I am certain Emilie will be very pleased about that,” Christine replies, kissing the baby’s head. “She is becoming quite the diva, I am not sure she would like competing with another girl.”

Erik runs a finger around his son’s neck – there is no sign the cord ever existed there. Raising his eyes to the heavens and to a God he had no faith in heretofore, he whispers a silent prayer. _Thank you._


	11. Recollections for the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Fleck brings Raoul to the theatre. Unfortunately, a very bad rehearsal is what he witnesses. Our little family spend time together with the new baby, but not without revelations about the past Erik would prefer Gustave not be aware of.

“Stop. Stop. Stop,” Meg calls out to the conductor, arms flailing as her bodice comes undone. The pink dress suffered split seam during a high kick, resulting in strands of sequins coming loose from the bodice. Sparkling bits of metal fly in all directions, even as she tries to contain them.

This latest of mishaps since the start of rehearsal – a broken heel, a forgotten lyric – a piece of confused choreography had two dancers collide having nothing to do with Meg, but halting the routine nonetheless.

The orchestra and the troupe groan at yet another stoppage. Several of the dancers simply drop to the floor, removing their shoes to massage their feet. “What now?” is the murmur - barely audible, a hum of displeasure filling the void once filled with music, dance and sweet harmonies. “I thought we were supposed cover up when there are mistakes.”

“My dress is falling apart all over the floor.”

“You are falling apart,” the anonymous voice responds.

Adele runs out from the wings to deal with the latest crisis, as each minor incident has become – Meg gradually becoming more and more stressed and unable to cope. “What happened?” she asks, attempting to maintain a gentle, tolerant tone – abandoning her usual strict demeanor. Judging from the fevered look in the blue eyes and the flaccid mouth, her daughter is on the verge of collapse. If this production is going to move forward, the lead singer must be able to do her job. Meg is showing no indication of being able to carry this number or any of the others.

“This damned dress…” Meg cries. “This entire damned costume is falling apart. I hate it. I hate this song. I hate this routine.”

“Fine time for you to say so – the opening is this weekend.” Adele’s whisper is harsh.

“I know – do you not think I do not know?” Meg responds, wrapping her arms around herself. “Where is Darius? Where is Gangle? Why are _you_ here?”

“Your husband is healing from an accident that took his left hand, if you recall,” Adele retorts. “He had a minor fall and Gregory has gone to attend to him.”

“Well, I need my medicine,” Meg pouts. Pulling off her shoes, she carries them and stalks off the stage.

“Stop. Right now. Just stop.”

Meg turns around, glaring at her mother. “I need my medication,” she says with finality, continuing toward the wings.

The entire theater falls silent – no one stirs. Most have become accustomed to Meg’s outbursts, but this is the worst one yet. Every breath is bated as they await Adele’s next action.

“Maizie – take the lead. When the run through is over, go to wardrobe and tell them to make you a new costume for this number and all the others – and make sure they double tack every single strand of sequins. Meg Giry is on hiatus as of this moment.” With those words, she follows her daughter off stage.

“I see Meg Giry was not taken into custody after the events on the pier,” Raoul says to Miss Fleck. A small smirk on his lips as he fingers his mustache.

They stand in the shadows at the rear of the theater. Observing. Unobserved.

Fleck is visibly uncomfortable – her intention was to be gracious to the Vicomte, but his witnessing this breakdown was something outsiders were not supposed to see – this was the time a show worked out the rough spots. That Meg was having one of her tantrums only exacerbated her own discomfort.

“No, she was not.”

“I am surprised your Mr. Y did not have her thrown into the sea after what she did,” the Vicomte says. “She is quite undone. If he is here watching, he may take the opportunity now…that, or use his noose to dispatch her to the great beyond.”

Fleck’s brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”

“Ah, I see, he has left his past behind – of course, no one would know unless the Girys or my dearest Christine felt the desire to tell of his adventures in Paris.”

“Meg is like a daughter to him, he would never hurt her.”

“I doubt anyone believe she would try to drown a child, either.” Raoul’s laugh is mirthless. “Then he has changed. Perhaps love does conquer all.”

“The master is a good, kind man,” Gloria says, face flushing red, her small hands tucked into fists. “I met him when he came to America and he has never been anything but kind and generous to me and all the rest of us… freaks – yes, we are all freaks and he gave us dignity, so I do not care what you are intimating about his past.”

“It seems I touched a nerve,” he chuckles. “Yes, I suppose you would have a different view of him than the monst…man I knew.”

“It does not appear that he is here – Madame Giry is overseeing this rehearsal,” Miss Fleck says, keeping her tone level and impersonal. “I should not have brought you here. It might be best if you returned to the hotel – I am certain he will call you when he is available for a meeting.”

Taking a step toward the center aisle, carpeted in red and gold, he remarks, “This theatre is vaguely reminiscent of the Palais Garner – I can see a number of touches similar to the architecture and décor of the opera house. A pale replica, but this is Coney Island, after all.”

Fleck wants nothing more than to counter this arrogant man with a witty and cutting comment, but she is so angry, it is all she can do to keep from unleashing her worst language at him, settling for, “Most people find the theater beautiful – not a bad seat in the house and perfect acoustics according to the singers.” Her words pressed through clenched teeth.

“Of course, of course. I did not mean to offend you.” Taking another step toward the aisle not quite moving past her, he says, “Perhaps, Madame Giry would have a moment for me. Or, Christine, since you mention singers. Perhaps, she would have a moment for her former husband. Although I do not recall seeing any posters advertising the Soprano of the Century.”

She shifts in tandem with him, continuing to block him further movement beyond the last row of seats. “As you can see, rehearsals are going on…this might not be the best time for…anyone to see you.”

“You are right, of course, I do not wish to put you in an uncomfortable position,” Raoul says. “You were most gracious to help me locate Mr. Y. I shall return to the hotel as you suggest. Can I offer you a ride back?”

“No…I have my own act to work on. If I happen to see the master, I will tell him you are here.”

“Please do.” Raoul tips his hat, he lingers at the door a moment to look back at her. Seeing her dark eyes still focused on him, he exits the theater. A lioness, that one, protecting her master…and mistress. What about Christine? Gustave would not allow him to speak with her…now Miss Fleck. She is curiously absent. What could that mean? Things to ponder.

“I thought I heard someone up here.” Mr. Squelch walks up the aisle, lifting his chin toward the door, he asks, “Who were you talking to?”

“The Vicomte de Chagny.”

“What was he doing here? I thought he was in Paris.”

Shrugging, she says, “Looking for the master– I thought he might be here so I brought him from the hotel. Then he asked about Mrs. Christine.”

“Did you say anything her being with child?”

“No, just that rehearsals were going on,” she replies, looking once again at the door. “I do not trust him.”

“Did he see what happened with Miss Giry?”

“I am afraid so.”

The strong man sighs. “Well what is done is done.”

“What happened with her?”

“What always happens with her.” He snorts. “Gangle was called away and she got upset,” he says, lifting the little woman up on his shoulder, he starts back toward the stage. “It is good you have your costume on, once this run through is over, if it will ever be over, we are on.”

The outer door opens slightly, Raoul watches as the odd couple make their way to the stage. Comfortable he appears to be forgotten, he slips inside, closing the door softly behind him. The stealth is unnecessary since the Pink Lady* number is well under way. Maizie Lighthouse making the most of her chance at taking over the lead, belts out her song and dances each step with assurance and style.

“Meg should be concerned,” Raoul murmurs to himself. “Maizie is quite good. Very attractive.”

Best to wait until the dwarf and the weight lifter take the stage before seeking Meg out. May as well watch the program – the choreography is smart and surprisingly elegant for a carnival show – the music modern, suitable for the times, but with elements of the opera he cut his own musical teeth on. He should like to have seen Meg dance the lead. As he recalled she was quite talented. Of course that was a lifetime ago…still the girl dancing is quite good. Based on his recollections, though, Meg would be quite compelling.

It would seem that night under the Garnier affected more people than he was aware of. No one in Paris seemed to know what happened to the Girys after the affair of the Phantom of the Opera – he disappeared and was presumed dead. The women were not particularly missed, none of the other artists except Carlotta was well known to the public. However, the literary group he became involved with recently in Paris, thanks to his sister Irene’s insistence, believed Madame Giry to be dead – and Mme. La Baronne de Castelot-Barbezac suggested she was Giry’s daughter, Meg.

For his part, having been to Coney Island, he knew the two women in Paris were not who they claimed to be. Actors from the troupe he suspected – Cecile Jammes was another ballet rat and close to Meg and Christine. Since the real Girys were gone, why not assume their personas and reap whatever rewards might come with the masquerade. In Cecile’s case, she became a Baroness, not at all bad for a ballerina. His brother still kept Sorelli, even though she was long past her prime. It was no worse than what Christine was accused of by marrying him.

Theirs was a love match, however, or so he believed at the time. Still, Christine was not interested in the money or the title. If they were not entirely happy – the first rush romance could not sustain what both of them experienced at the hands of her Angel of Music. The gesture of running into the sea to fetch her red scarf became a vague memory. One of many foolish acts he performed in the name of love for Little Lotte. No longer having her music, she threw herself into their…her son. Liquor and gambling and the odd affair absorbed his time.

Well, why not? Escape became the sole focus of his life after wearing that noose – not knowing if he was going to live or die – watching Christine kiss that thing – not once, but twice. Was it to save him? Maybe at first. The image haunting him was the second kiss. The monster felt something as well, otherwise why let him go? Still, he did not have to take to drink and self-pity and lose her entirely. The ten years awarded him to prove his case were wasted.

It would seem that Meg took a similar route to address whatever misdeeds she believed were committed against her. The night at Jack’s showed him a woman in despair. Had he been another man – the one he was before the night of Don Juan Triumphant – he might have been able to help her. But, then again, were he that man, he would not have been in New York at all.

What sort of man _was_ he now?

As far as he could tell, Meg was either drinking or using some other means to dull the pain of her existence. How many secrets might she reveal? What would she think if she knew Paris society believed her to be a Baroness, not a dancer in an amusement park? The idea he had when planning his visit back here might turn out to be more eventful than he imagined. Perhaps both he and Meg could find some resolution, if not revenge.

The baby, swaddled in a white flannel blanket, his head partially tucked under Christine’s lavender quilted bed jacket, suckles at Christine’s breast. Unlike Emilie, he was able to latch on to her immediately. A blessing, after the difficulty with the cord. The situation was resolved so swiftly, she had little time to become alarmed. The little man is all she could wish for. So far, he was not showing any of the fussiness of his big sister. A silent prayer of thanksgiving is offered. Tw, like her beautiful daughter, would definitely be a challenge. For the moment, there appeared to be no reason for concern.

“He took to you as if born to it,” Erik jokes. “He certainly has an appetite.” Unable to restrain himself, he strokes the silky dark hair, still damp from Mrs. Molloy’s ministrations. “It never ceases to amaze me how soft, yet sturdy these new beings are.”

“They do have to put up a fight to come into the world. I suspect if he were able to scream as his mother did, he would have. I could feel his struggle with each contraction – we were working together for him to arrive as quickly as possible.”

“I dunna think I ever heard a new mum speak about her new babby that way,” Mrs. Molloy chimes in. Once Dr. Turner took his leave, she made short measure of cleaning up the soiled linens, making sure Christine and the baby were comfortable and dry. The stirrups were removed and the bed was simply a bed again. Taking in the new parents, her round face glowed. “What are you going to call him?”

“Joshua,” Christine announces. “Joshua Matthew Saint-Rien.”

“Family names?”

“No,” Erik answers. “Gustave was named for Christine’s father, but with Emilie, and this little one, we just chose names we…and Gustave liked.”

“Well, it is a fine strong name.”

A tentative knock on the door has Mrs. Molloy hurry to complete changing from her soiled uniform, replaced by her cape and bonnet. Picking up her bag, she prepares to make her exit.

“Come in,” Erik calls out.

“I need someone to open the door,” Gustave replies.

“I will get it. Time for family. It was a pleasure assisting with this birth. He is a beauty.”

Gustave enters the room carrying a tray of tea things and a plate of muffins. “Helen thought you might like a snack. Is this all right?”

“Perfect,” Christine says.

Erik gets up and takes the tray from Gustave, putting it on the small round table where Dr. Turner and Mrs. Molloy keep vigil during Christine’s labor. “Go meet your new brother,” he says. “Mrs. Molloy, would you care for a cup of tea and a muffin before you leave?”

“No, sir, I have my dinner waiting at home,” she says.

Removing a money clip from his pocket, he counts out some bills and hands them to her. “Thank you. You saved his life.”

“Oh, I did no such thing – Dr. Turner would have done right by him.”

“Perhaps, but it will be you I remember.”

Looking down at the payment, she sucks in her breath. “Oh, no, sir – this is much more than my agreed fee.”

“You are worth every bit of that and more – I thank you.”

With quick knee bob, she nods her head. “Very well, then. Thank you. If the missus needs any help, you just ring me up.”

“I shall do that.”

“Did you pay her well?”

“I did. This was a most memorable birth.”

“You seemed particularly shaken.”

“Why, what happened?” Gustave asks, looking away from the baby.

“I think your Papa remembered something,” Christine responds to Gustave, but looks at Erik, a question in her aquamarine eyes.

“I saw my past…”

“And?” Christine quirks an eyebrow.

“What did you see Papa? How could you see your past with a baby being born?” Adjusting his position in his chair, his focus is now totally directed at his father.

Sitting down at the table where he placed the tea tray, Erik looks at his wife and his son. How can he tell them the baby reminded him of murders he committed when in India with the Thuggees? That time was so long ago – even though his dreams were still haunted by many of the heinous acts he committed. The person he was then is foreign to him…to the life he has now. Christine knows some of his background – even that he killed – she experienced that part of him first hand when he used the noose on Raoul. Her forgiveness is a miracle.

But what does a man tell his son? A son who completely accepts him.

“Joshua had the cord which feeds babies in the womb wrapped around his neck. Thankfully, Mrs. Molloy and the doctor were able to unwrap it so he was not injured.”

“What does that have to do with you? Did you have a cord wrapped around your neck when you were born?”

Erik looks to Christine, her eyes are quiet and calm…waiting for what he has to say.

“Something like that. Not when I was born, though, at least not as far as I know.” Something tells him his mother might have allowed him to strangle, thus saving all manner of problems to be avoided. “When I was a very young man, I was captured by a group of men called Thuggees. They were robbers and murderers. I had nothing – the group I was with picked me up on the road and allowed me to travel with them as entertainment. I had my violin and could do my voice throwing tricks and I could sing. For that they provided me with food and company. No one cared what I looked like.”

“What happened, Papa?”

“The Thuggees infiltrated the group and they robbed the men – those who fought were killed, some of the others they let go. I think they found me novel enough to keep alive.”

Once again, he looks to Christine for direction. Although her face is troubled, small creases forming between her eyebrows – eyes narrowed – she says nothing.

“They used a weapon – I would learn was called a Punjab Lasso – to commit their crimes.”

“Did they use it on you, too?” Gustave’s eyes are wide, he leans forward on his chair, elbows resting on his knees – chin balanced on his fists.

Erik can almost hear Gustave’s breathing and the racing of his heart. “Not then…later…I had no means of protecting myself…the last group I was with were kind and I was grateful they were set free. Others before then were not so generous. I asked the Thuggees to teach me how to use the weapon.”

“Did they? Teach you?”

Erik was concerned that Gustave was envisioning the story as an exciting adventure instead of what it was – a lesson in murder. Yet, he continued, hoping to diminish the horror by telling the tale without exaggeration.

“Yes, but by using it on me. I came close to dying. When they released the Punjab lasso, which is actually a garrote – fine wire – I became ill and was understandably terrified. They could have killed me, but did not. When I asked why they did not – the jamadar…leader…told me that my courage saved me. That I was a fool…but I was a brave fool.”

“Is that the scar on your neck that you keep covered with your collars?”

“It is, I am surprised you were aware of the scar.”

“I am aware of all the scars I have seen.”

“You are a very observant young man.”

“I love you, Papa. I do not know why people would hurt you so much.”

“Your Papa was not always a good man, Gustave. You can thank your mother for any part of me that is good and kind.”

“No one allowed you to be kind,” Christine finally enters the conversation. “At some point you must forgive yourself. If your distress dealing with the birth of this child gave you some measure of hope and faith, then we must consider that problem to be a blessing.”

“Does the baby have a scar?”

“No, dear, the baby does not have a scar.” Christine smiles, taking his hand in hers. Lifting little Joshua up, she says, “See? Say hello.”

“Hello, Joshua. I am Gustave, your big brother.”

“Who wants tea,” Erik asks, relieved the conversation has moved on, even so, knowing this was not the end of Gustave’s curiosity, removes the tea cozy. The act of domesticity is comforting after visiting his troubled past.

“I am starved,” Christine says. “I should like one of those muffins.

Each of them enjoys their tea and the bran muffins Julia made for them.

“How are your fingers?” Erik asks, taking the boy’s left hand in his. “Your finger work is getting better and better – hard tips, but no calluses. I do see some abrasion, make sure you clean those areas really well.”

“Did you call everyone?” Christine asks.

“Yes, Maman. I called Mr. Khan and he said he would take care of the notifications.”

“Good,” Erik says. “I heard the phone ring a number of times. Who was calling?”

Gustave’s face falls, his lips form a pout and his nostrils flair.

“My goodness, Gustave, you look as if it was the devil,” Christine chuckles. “Who was it?”

“Raoul.”

“Raoul?” Erik and Christine ask in tandem, she continues. “He is not supposed to be here for another week at most – two according to his letter.”

“What did he want?” Erik asks.

“He wanted to talk to you…I told him you were busy.”

“Did you say busy with what?”

“No. Then he called me a brat.”

Erik snorts.

“And what did you call him?” Christine asks, shooting a harsh glance at her husband.

Gustave looks up at her from under his thick eyelashes, a small smirk curves his lips.

“Well?” Erik says.

“I called him a drunk and hung up.”

Erik guffaws outright, but Christine hides her smile behind her hand.

Encouraged by their amusement, Gustave goes on, “He was calling all day. The first time he asked for Christine Daae. Then he just kept asking for Papa. I did not want him to know about the baby. It was none of his business.”

“I think you did just fine, son,” Erik says. “His timing was always impeccably bad.”

“Impeccably bad is an interesting way to put it,” Christine says.

“What would you say?”

“Just bad – you, however, always like to embellish things.”

“I am an artiste.”

“You are a very sarcastic man with a vivid imagination, is what you are,” she laughs.

“So you are not mad at me?” Gustave asks.

“Why, you did nothing wrong. Perhaps you were a tad rude…he was your father for ten years.”

“He was never my father…do not ever say that again.”

“I am sorry you were so hurt, Gustave,” Christine says, smoothing his hair from his forehead.

“I do not want him here.”

“Well, we must find out what he wants and whether we can provide it. You need not be present when we meet,” Erik says. “Did he leave a telephone number?

“He is staying at the hotel.”

“Very well. I shall contact him tomorrow. For the moment, however, we shall forget about the Vicomte de Chagny. The time is for celebrating Joshua’s birth.”

“Is Emilie still awake?” Christine asks. “She will be quite cross to find out we are having a party without her.”

Gustave shakes his head no. “Helen put her to bed an hour ago with the twins. They all sleep together in the big bed.”

“Then they shall meet the new family member in the morning,” Christine says. “Time for you to go to bed as well.”

“Are you going to sleep?”

“Yes. The bassinette is right here next to me.” Indicating a wooden cradle decked out in hand-knit blue and yellow blankets. “He is asleep right now, but will be awake as soon as his tummy aches for more milk.”

“What about Papa?” Nodding his head toward Erik.

“I will lie down on the cot over there, if necessary, but I suspect I shall just sit here next to your mother, and perhaps rest my head on the edge of her bed if I do drift off.”

Gustave picks up their used cups and napkins, returning them to the tray. “Papa, could you open the door for me?”

Erik jumps to the task. “Of course. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For everything – mainly for being my son.”

“Oh, that is easy.”

“I am glad you think so.”

Once assured Gustave has gone, Christine says, “Raoul used some of my greasepaint and powder to disguise the bruises and abrasions for the wedding not covered by his shirt collar…and for other occasions when strangers were about. He wore a beard for a time…” Pulling the baby close, laying him across her chest, brushing her lips against his forehead. “There was no scarring, like yours, but there continued to be some discoloration under his chin – even now, I imagine.”

“Rope – the noose was rope. The fibers burned his skin. I was garroted with a wire instrument – the skin was cut and bled. They allowed me to clean the wound and apply bandaging.” Erik turns from the door to face her. “I doubt my fear was any greater than his, though. One does not survive the threat of dying without fearful recollections – particularly when there are visible reminders.”

“Gustave never noticed anything.”

“I suppose I should be grateful, although with Raoul’s return the topic may come up.” He sits down at the table. “I only wish he might have waited a least another day so we might have had our celebration.”

“Come sit by me,” she says, patting the bed. “I came to terms with that night long ago.”

Accepting her invitation, he moves to the chair next to the bed.

“Take off your mask and wig – it is just us now.”

After doing as she asks, he rests his head on the mattress, stretching an arm across her to rest his hand on the bundle lying against her breast.

Stroking the sparse gray hair with her free hand, she asks, “What will you do if Raoul says something?”

“I do not know. It is something that haunts me…my past. I cannot change it. Would that I could.”

“Well, he has no support from me – my presence will mean something.”

“It means everything.”

“I love you, Erik, and we have three beautiful children. Whatever your sins, I believe God has forgiven you, even if you have not forgiven yourself.”

“I prayed tonight – when I saw the cord around Joseph’s neck. I did not want you to suffer for my sins, so I prayed.”

“That is quite something,” she laughs softly. “Come lie next to me on the bed, I think there is room – you did seem to build this contraption for two. We can hold Joshua between us.”

After removing his shoes, jacket and trousers, he climbs in next to her, pulling the covers up over both of them, making certain there is room for the baby. “This has been quite a day.”

“Says the master of understatement – do you intend to be funny, or is it just another of your many talents?”

“I love you, Christine.”

Joshua opens his eyes and blows a milky bubble from his rosebud mouth.

Erik strokes the baby’s hand, the little fingers wrap around his index finger. “I love you, too, Joshua Matthew.”

In response, the little boy burps loudly and closes his eyes again.

“A baritone.”

“Like his father,” Christine laughs, “wanting the last word.”

“I do not.”

“Mmm, hmm.”

“I suppose I do.”

“You do.”

“I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *In my stories both POTO and LND, pink is Meg’s favorite color. Erik named this routine for her. There is also a cocktail called Pink Lady and I decided to do a little research to find out if the drink had been invented and was popular in 1911. As it turned out, the drink may have been named after a show called “The Pink Lady” that ran in on Broadway in 1911 (the year my story takes place). I’m beginning to think I once lived in this time period, so often I get an idea and it turns out to have happened in one way or another. BTW – the drink made up of gin, egg white and grenadine.


	12. A Matter of Options

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adele confronts Meg about her breakdown, while Raoul hope to convince both of them to support his effort to bring Erik down.

“Meg, let me in.” Knocking lightly, holding her head close to the door, Adele’s voice is just above a whisper, her eyes watching the long hallway closely, observing the cast and crew mulling about, not wanting to call more attention to her daughter’s latest tantrum.

The lack of response concerns her. Meg, of late, has no problem letting her feelings be known to one and all, so silence is alarming. After locating the key to the dressing room on her chatelaine, she opens the door to a dark room.

“Meg? Are you here?” With the help of the light from the hall, Adele finds the wall lamp just inside the door and turns the switch.

Meg lies face down in the center of the floor, the fringe of the pink dress splayed around her, the straps of her shoes tangled in her fingers.

Closing the door swiftly behind her and securing the lock, Adele leans her cane against the dressing table to kneel on the floor, lifting the younger woman’s body onto her lap. Hearing a small groan, relief floods through her. She is alive and her breathing is that of a once little girl after falling asleep after a long day of dance and play.

Smoothing the golden hair, no longer contained in the combs and pins used to secure the thick curls, she cradles Meg’s head to her breast. “My dearest child – what has become of both of us?”

Meg’s blue eyes open slowly, the heavily mascaraed eyelashes blink…she raises a hand to shade her eyes from the glare of the lamp. “Maman? What happened? Why are we on the floor?” Moving the hand to her forehead, she groans.

“You appear to have fallen after locking the door,” Adele says. “The room was dark, so you likely tripped on something. Does your head hurt?”

Meg nods. “Why are you here?”

“I was concerned – you were very upset at the rehearsal and left the stage quite abruptly.”

“I just left?”

“Yes.”

Meg pushes away from Adele, pressing herself to her feet. Although unsteady, she manages to stand, staggering to the chaise. Flopping down, she pulls down the bodice of her dress, already hanging loosely from the slim straps exposing her naked breasts and throws the sequined fabric to the floor. “It appears my costume decided to abandon me – not unlike everything and everyone else in my life,” she complains. “If I asked you to fire the hag who sewed this, would you do it?”

“I will certainly look into it – shoddy stitching is not a small matter,” Adele responds. “This sort of mistake is not only embarrassing to the performer, but dangerous to anyone on the stage. However, our staff is the highest level and hag is hardly the way to describe someone with skills more marketable than yours – particularly under your current circumstances.”

Lifting herself up from the floor, she retrieves her staff and grabs Meg’s robe hanging from the dressing screen. “Here…cover yourself,” she says, handing the pink chenille garment to her daughter before sitting down next to her, helping her to put it on.

“I am sorry – you are correct,” Meg says, head lowered. “Was it very bad?”

“Yes.” Adele leans back on the chaise. “This cannot continue. You talk of firing a seamstress…what should I do about you? What do you want me to do?”

“You really care? I am surprised. That husband of yours would like nothing more than for me to disappear.”

“Nadir has his reasons…and, frankly, I do not blame him,” Adele replies. “Erik’s insistence and the fact you are my daughter, not merely a star performer, protected you from being fired long ago – if not incarcerated for what happened on the pier. Nadir saved Gustave’s life.”

“I did not push him…I have tried to make up for it. You know that. Everyone knows that. Gustave even said so.” Lips, still heavily rouged, pout as she crosses her arms across her chest.

“He would not have been on the pier were it not for you,” Adele says with a harsh laugh, using her cane to help her up from the sofa. “Stop behaving like a child. I suspect you belabored your therapist with tales of all the wrongs committed against you…frankly, I am tired of it. I am sorry I was not more mother to you than agent, but I cannot change the past.”

“So you are tired of it? I still have to live with what happened to me.” A faint whine colors her voice.

“I know,” her mother says softly. “But whatever you are doing to yourself is not helping you. All of us have suffered in one way or another – do you think you are the only ballerina who used her body to stay alive for one more day?”

The blue eyes narrow, taking measure of the woman in black standing in front of her – both hands pressed onto the engraved handle of her cane. “You?”

A curt nod. “For a time, until I met your father. He married me in spite of my past. Not many of the other rats were so fortunate.”

“You never said.” The hard cast of her face developed over the past several years softens ever so slightly at her mother’s admission.

“It was of no matter – I did my best to protect you from all that.” Waving any memories away with a flick of her fingers, she says, “When we were planning Phantasma, I asked Erik about protecting the dancers…paying them enough…providing housing, so they did not have to barter with men to survive. He agreed.”

“Why then did you encouraged me to pursue him?”

“I suppose I thought he would marry you eventually. I was not really aware of how deeply he felt about Christine – obsessions are curious things.” Sighing deeply, she shakes her head. “Problem was, in making plans for you, I forgot about you – and what you might want or need.”

“What do you want me to do…now?” Meg asks, eyes pleading on the verge of tears.

“Right now, I want you to get cleaned up and dressed,” Adele replies. “I do not know how to deal with this medicine you talk about – I know you cannot simply stop taking it, but you need to get well.”

“I went a little mad before the rehearsal – Gangle gave me some of my pills. Maybe too many,” she says. “It was not his fault.”

“What happened?”

Meg glances at the mirror. Adele follows her eyes, seeing the damage.

“I was in pain…my feet…that might have been when the dress began to fall apart.” She shrugs. “He thought he was helping.

“I see.”

Meg holds out her arms, the tears break, flowing down her cheeks. “Help me, Maman. I am so scared.”

Adele returns to the chaise, wrapping her arms around her sobbing daughter. “I will do my best.”

They hold one another until Meg’s tears subside. Pulling away, Adele gets up and strokes her daughter’s cheek, using her handkerchief to dry the tears. “How do you feel now? Can you manage to dress yourself?”

Meg nods. “I think so – I got so frantic with all the mistakes. Overwhelming rage comes up and I do not know how to deal with it…everything gets so confused.

“I will telephone Nadir. If all is well with Darius, I will have him come to take us home,” she says, going to the door. “I shall return shortly.”

Raoul retreats more deeply behind the scrim where he has been observing the dressing rooms closest to the stage – assuming Meg’s lead role was rewarded with a short walk to the stage. When Adele takes her leave, he applauds his ingenuity. Preoccupied, she hobbles past him without any sense of his presence. Luck is with him

It occurs to him this might be how Erik felt when _haunting_ the Palais Garnier. There is a definite feeling of power watching people when they are unaware of his presence. Perhaps it was that feeling Erik brought with him to the stage the night of Don Juan Triumphant. The man is not stupid, he knew the forces arranged against him, yet, he went on. His own journey into the caverns of the opera house to rescue Christine might be comparable.

The power of love. Hah.

At the time he never considered Erik might actually love Christine…or that she returned that love. No. That is untrue. When they spoke of him, she would vacillate between fear and incredible admiration and gratitude.

The shifting back and forth prompted him to comment if Erik was handsome, there would be no question about her choosing him. She did not contradict him. The entire secret engagement was her idea – in all actuality, it was more a fantasy engagement. There would always be something fae…otherworldly about her. Since he is being honest with himself – this is where she belongs, not in the Parisian drawings rooms he inhabits more and more frequently. There is no one else was like her – at least in his limited experience. Christine is enchanting, combined with her voice, it is no wonder the monster wanted her.

After all, is she not what he wants for himself? Someone to give his own life relevance? When she accepted his ring, she declared she would never marry, but they could pretend until he left for his naval commission. Only his insistence Erik was evil incarnate and Erik’s own behavior frightened her enough to support the plan to kill him.

The resultant experience left him scarred, literally and figuratively, for life. His intention to save the opera house and Christine…and kill the Phantom did not succeed as he intended. A part of him still wonders if the unmasking was her last minute attempt to help Erik escape. In the end, the opera house survived. Christine became his wife. The illusion of the Phantom…if not the man…did fade.

Never did he think, however, the man would turn out to be more of a challenge than the ghost. Judging from Miss Fleck’s reaction to some of his comments, no one here knows of Mr. Y’s past. If he could not kill the man physically, he might be able to destroy the new image Erik created for himself. And perhaps regain some sense of self respect for himself.

Having to deal with returning home to his family with the humiliation of Christine’s choice was difficult. Phillippe’s criticism of him and the decision he made in taking the singer for a wife resurfaced. Over the course of ten years, the verbal criticism stopped, even if the looks and semi-whispered asides were still commonplace.

The drinking and gambling were no longer a place for him to hide – Phillippe would bode no foolish behavior, as he called it. Raoul squandered most of his inheritance, so he was at the financial mercy of his brother. The money he left New York with only paid the existing debt. Another sword for Phillippe to hang over his head.

 _“Bad enough you were living off her earnings…but to sell her?”_ The etched face of his brother hardened to stone when he learned of the whole affair. Raoul was unable to hide both the nature and level of his debt, but how undone he was at the loss of Christine and Gustave, even admitting the suspicion the boy was not his was true.

Without her, he became a shell.

The comte put certain conditions on Raoul coming back to the family home – no drinking, no gambling, no carousing – particularly with show people. _“You will not get a cent from me if you continue to behave like a roustabout.”_ A regimen was set up for him with different social groups, in the hopes he would reestablish himself as a worthy noble.

Little did he know a literary group would bring him an opportunity to avenge what he believed to be the theft of what was rightly his. If he must suffer a level of humiliation, so be it – the damage to Erik would be much greater – so he was willing to accept snide comments with a chuckle and a wink…actually gaining some respect for his generous response.

Assured that Adele is gone, Raoul moves to the room she just left and knocks lightly. No response. Testing the knob, the door opens easily. The room is dimly lit and appears empty. Was this the room Madame Giry exited? Perhaps he made a mistake. Leaving the door slightly ajar, he steps into the room. “Hello?”

“Maman? Is something wrong?” Meg calls from the small bathroom. Face scrubbed and hair pulled into a pony tail, still in her bathrobe, she returns to the main room. Frowning at the man in the top hat, she asks, “Who the hell are you?”

Not an ounce of fear in her accusation. Raoul wonders at the woman in front of him – like Miss Fleck, neither of them concerned they were talking to a gentleman…a noble, at that. Despite what he saw on the stage, this woman shows no weakness. How often does she find strange men in her dressing room?

“You have forgotten me, Miss Giry? I am crushed,” Raoul says. “There was a time when you were all too willing to escort me into the bowels of the Palais Garnier with my hand held to the level of my eyes.” An attempt at humor reminiscent of the night he saw Christine again, recalling his retrieving her red scarf from the sea at Perros.

The light of recognition flashes in her eyes. “Vicomte de Chagny. I thought you suffered enough humiliation the last time you were here.”

“Things change. People change.”

“Not really, but if that is your reason, it is rather slim.” Taking a seat on the chaise, she motions him to take a seat on her vanity bench. “You have the smug look of the proverbial cat who ate the canary.”

“Do I?”

“Well, you are not drunk for starters – so, I am thinking you believe you have something to challenge Erik with.”

“You are quite the clever one.”

“Yes, well, it is a gift. You should have listened to me when I warned you to leave the last time,” she says, tucking her legs under her, resting her head on her fist propped on the arm of the sofa. “If you are thinking of trying to best Erik again, I would reconsider and, as I advised before…leave this place behind.”

“What if I told you I had something that could ruin him – or at least his reputation here as a showman and great benefactor?”

“I would say you will not win that battle any more than you won with Christine,” Meg laughs. “Erik is invincible.”

“Are you in love with him, too?”

“No, if I ever was, but, no, I am not in love with him – but I do know him. He has too much to lose to allow you to threaten him.”

“You do not want revenge?”

“What did I just say? His son almost died because of me – he might have easily killed me. I was frankly surprised he did not, but too much was at stake – he was not willing to sacrifice Christine and Gustave…and Phantasma to a moment of rage,” she says, her tone blunt, without emotion. “All I want right now is to feel human again.”

“What if I told you I might just have something to do just that?”

Meg gets up from the chaise, wrapping the robe tightly around her to walk behind her dressing screen. “Now when have I heard that before? You are not _that_ attractive – besides I am a married woman.”

Raoul’s face flushes. “I was not intimating anything…carnal.”

“All men are interested in things carnal, whether they are aware of it or not,” she snickers. “There is always a quid pro quo. You have something I want, I give you something you want.”

“That is not true of me,” he sputters.

Tossing the robe over the screen, she replies, “If I came out right now, in my current state of undress, I suspect you would recognize the lie you are telling yourself. In any event, I have no interest in any schemes you have in mind.”

“I misjudged you.”

Stepping out from behind the screen, garbed in a pale pink linen day dress with a high collar and long sleeves, she says, “Had you spoken to me yesterday, I might have been interested.” Glancing over his shoulder to the door, she smiles.

“What changed?” Following her eyes, he himself turns around.

“Yes, Meg, what changed?” Adele asks, opening the door fully. “You will forgive me, but I would be interested in knowing what the vicomte believes might be of interest to you.”

“How did you know…?”

“You left the door open a fraction. Some things never change – your level of caution was always lacking.”

“I believe I shall wait until I can speak directly to your Mr. Y,” he replies. “My bona fides are lacking here – I am sorry I wasted your time.” Returning the grey top hat to his head, he taps it and moves past Adele to the door.

Madame steps back allowing him to pass. “It is unlikely he will be available until tomorrow.”

“You spoke with him?”

“No, I spoke with Miss Fleck – she advised me of your presence and where Erik is,” she replies, turning to Meg, continuing, “Gustave called the theatre…Christine gave birth to another son.” Returning her attention to Raoul, she says, “so, he will be staying home with her and the other children.”

“Another son…other children?” The words are a blow, the rush of adrenalin to his heart nauseates him. Why had he not considered they might have other children? Time did not stand still for them as it has for him.

“Ten years is a long time – but three can be as well,” Adele says, her tone holds no sarcasm, her dark eyes soft. “Besides Gustave they have a daughter, Emilie, and now Joshua…and two orphans from the fire who may or may not be adopted. Quite a large family.”

“So another boy,” Meg says. “I can honestly say I am happy for them. How is Darius?”

“That I do not know,” Adele replies. “When I heard Raoul was here, I was concerned he might be looking for you and I was correct.”

Escape from this room is all he wants now. These women think him a fool. A belief he cannot argue at the moment. “I am intruding now – forgive me for assuming you might be interested in the information I have.”

“Oh, I am curious, but the price is too dear – you as well, Maman?”

“Indeed,” Adele says. “You are an outsider, Vicomte. Strange you would believe yourself welcome to disrupt our lives.”

“So I am learning.” Doffing his hat once again, he steps out the door, with a glance back, he says, “Again I apologize for my intrusion.”

Once the door is firmly shut, the two women burst out in laughter.

“I can only imagine him lurking about here, pretending he is some sort of sleuth,” Meg says.

“More like he thought he could be a phantom.”

“Angry as I have been with Erik – I cannot see myself helping Raoul do anything to hurt him.”

“Whatever he does to Erik, he does to all of us,” Adele says, her tone cold. “Phantasma is more than resolving an old grudge by a jilted lover. He best be careful.”

“What else did Gloria say?” Meg asks, rummaging through her reticule, removing a small bottle she holds it up for Adele to see.

“Just what I said – I cut her short in order to return to you…what is that?”

“Some of my pills,” Meg says, holding the bottle out to her mother. “If you would feel better about me, you can have these, but you must trust me when I ask for a dose. I know when my body is in need.”

“What about Gangle?”

“He is very kind and means well, but he made a mistake – he gave me the wrong pills and too much.”

“But you took them.”

“I did,” Meg admits. “I am trying…truly I am.”

“Thank you for trusting me,” Adeles says, “but you keep them.”

“My trust level has been severely diminished – you are my mother.” She shrugs “You were right – I must stop blaming others.”

“Trust yourself first.”

“Thank you,” Meg says tucking the vial back in her purse. “Do you think we could call Nadir so we can go home? I should like to see Darius.”

“Of course.”

Raoul closes the door of his hotel room behind him. Removing his jacket and hat, he hangs them in the armoire. Unlike the suite he and Christine were given when they were here to meet with Oscar Hammerstein, this is a bed sitting room. More than sufficient for his needs and tastefully decorated – but small and confining. The carafe of brandy sitting on the parsons table behind the brocade couch draws his eye. Was it there earlier – he does not recall. Although it seems unlikely. Possibly a courtesy of the hotel, but probably not.

This looks to be a long evening and the room though comfortable offers nothing to stem his restlessness. The meeting with the Giry women unsettled him – any expectation he may have had of Meg’s support is gone and he is beginning to wonder if coming here was a good idea. The abrupt reminder of Christine’s love for the deformed man who bested him not once but twice was a shock. His throat was still raw with the bile that rose when learning she bore him another son…and there were other children.

What was he doing here?

The die was cast, however, too late to turn back. Pulling aside the heavy blue brocade drapes, he gazes out at the lights of the amusement park adjacent to Phantasma – Steeplechase he believes it is called. Gambling comes to mind, but he brushes it aside. Still, he might as well take advantage of the entertainment Coney Island has to offer – at the very minimum finding a restaurant for a decent supper if he can find his appetite after a brisk walk. Despite the ruins of the fire just meters from the hotel, the air still smelling of smoke and ash, the music and noise from the crowds at the other parks are festive and welcoming.

As he returns to the armoire for his hat and coat, the phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Vicomte, I understand you wish to speak with me,” Erik’s baritone sounds in his ear. The power of that voice, even now, strikes him to the bone.

Gathering himself, he says, “Tomorrow would have been soon enough, I understand you and Christine are parents again – I would not wish to intrude on something so important.”

“Quite thoughtful of you,” Erik replies. “However, I am the only one in the household awake – something I am wont to be later in the day. Besides, my curiosity is piqued.”

“Everyone is well?”

“Yes, thank you,” Erik chuckles. “I can meet you if you would like – at the hotel…or Jack’s?”

Once again, a shiver runs up his spine – Jack’s…wagers…why can he not lose this absurd fear? God, he wants a drink, but this is not the time to break that fast. Meeting with Erik demands he have his wits about him. Their last meeting left him humiliated and alone. “The hotel will be fine.”

“I will call the concierge – my office is in the penthouse – he will escort you there in, shall we say half an hour?”

“Half an hour is fine.”

“Good. See you then.”


	13. Bibliography

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is Raoul up to? Erik discusses the problem with Christine and the Daroga. Both offer some excellent suggestions.

Assured Christine is soundly asleep after this most recent nursing, Erik rises from the bed, gathering Joshua in his arms to settle him in the crib. Christine sings in her sleep, a small smile on her lips, assuring him she is at peace. Joshua’s tummy full – Erik pats his back to elicit a different sort of music – a solid burp – before securing him in the cradle.

Returning his attention to Christine, he fastens the moveable breastfeeding flap on her chemise, adjusts her quilted blue bed jacket then covers her with the duvet. Lastly, he presses a light kiss on her forehead – breathing in the scent of the lavender infused into the cloths Mrs. Molloy used to wipe her brow during the birth.

The sound of the telephone bell disturbs the silence in the house. Swiftly closing the door of the birthing room behind him, Erik jogs to the library to quiet the discordant sound. Despite his appreciation for the invention – communication with the family and staff was definitely simpler now – Mr. Bell’s invention was an often demanding and unwelcome mistress. One could be in the middle of a life and death conversation, but if the bell sounded, the thing must be answered. The noise had to be stopped.

The discipline to ignore outside stimuli until he was ready to deal with it was put to the test with this new instrument and, for the most part, he was able to shut out the insistent ringing when necessary. Were he alone in his office, he might let it pass, but waking the entire household to suit his stubbornness was a poor choice. So he picks up his pace to gather the receiver in his hand thus stopping the incessant wail.

“Hello?” he growls into the receiver. Whoever is on the line at this time of day does not deserve the telephone voice he created for himself. Having heard enough voices over the telephone, each member of the household…because of their French and, in Christine’s case Swedish/French, accents and less formal use of English…was given instruction on tone, volume and cordiality – much like singing lessons. Erik found if someone smiled when speaking on the phone, it registered on the other end as a pleasant contact. Since one did not always know if the person on the other end was friend or foe or simply a stranger, best to lead with one’s best foot forward.

Of course, this was something he never addressed in years past – if anyone in the household needed lessons in how to speak to someone in social situations…or now over this instrument, it was he. Christine aptly reminded him of that particular when lessons were in session. He found that no one in the household had much difficulty, with the exception of Emilie, who was forbidden to answer the “ringy box” at all until she was at least five, and never insulted anyone on the other end of the line.

He, on the other hand, found years of isolation and lack of companionable human contact, could not be entirely trusted to be civil, even in the thirteen odd years since he moved from the basement of the Palais Garnier to a world above ground – housed by all manner of people, demanding all manner of social responses. This left him to decide that unless it was an emergency or he was standing next to the telephone, someone else should answer.

The benefit resulting from this quarantine – he was seldom called at his office – thus, he was agreeably left alone unless someone absolutely needed to speak with him.

“It is Nadir. Speak like a human being.”

“Christine and the baby just fell asleep,” Erik hisses. “What is so important you could not wait until morning?”

“I had a strong cup of coffee before ringing to help me through the battle that always ensues when you chance to answer the telephone,” Nadir retorts. “You might consider I felt something of importance needed to be relayed to you…however, if you insist, I shall call tomorrow – that way you can have a more restless night than is usual because I shall not pick up if you become curious and call back.”

“Very amusing,” Erik says, leaning against the desk, toying with the pen and pad sitting next to the phone for messages. “What is it? Darius is all right, I hope. I was so preoccupied with the birth, I did not follow up…”

“Darius is all right – Gangle cleaned up the wound, the stitching pulled away, nothing major. He took a fall trying to use the commode – silly pride not letting the nurse assist him.”

“Yasmine is a lovely young woman – I cannot say I blame him...”

“Modestly be damned if you have to relieve yourself and only have one hand to deal with the…uh…physical necessities.”

“He is fine, then?”

“Especially knowing about the hand you are creating for him. The news cheered him immensely. Thank you.”

“He is a good man – I shall do my best,” Erik says. “That is not why you called…”

“You are correct.” Nadir says. “I returned to the theater to pick up Adele and Meg…she had a serious breakdown…Adele will speak to you about it later – she has pulled Meg from the show until we can speak about her addiction.”

“That serious? What…”

“Things are calm and Meg is in agreement and fine with the decision…as I said, Adele will speak to you about it later.”

A wave of displeasure washes over him at having this news, not knowing what the issues are. Nadir, however, is determined. Whatever it is he called about takes precedence over even their star performer being replaced by an understudy for the park opening. “What then? Get on with it.”

“Raoul witnessed Meg’s breakdown and followed her to her dressing room.”

The vicomte cannot seem to resist the aura of the stage and cannot resist meddling. Had he kept his aristocratic nose out of the plans for Christine’s rise to prima donna at the Opera Populaire, things might have been so different. Still, looking at his life now…he could not regret the outcome.

In his meddling, an entire range of events brought Erik to a level of happiness he never imagined for himself. At that, Raoul is back again, carrying turmoil around with him like black clouds before a storm.

“And what transpired?”

“He tried to enlist her in some sort of scheme he is plotting against you.”

The guffaw Erik produces is both loud and decidedly amused. “This is what you called me about – a plot by that dolt?”

“Perhaps you should take him seriously – he continues to carry a grudge against you – enough to present his plan to Meg...and Adele.”

“So what is this plan?” The man, although a fool and meddler, might bring more fortune than ruin in his efforts to destroy him.

“They would not listen. They brushed him off.”

“Hmmm, too bad. Fine time for them to for them to become disinterested in gossip. Could have saved a lot of time.”

“He is not so unwise as to reveal a plan prematurely.”

“I suppose, but he must have thought Meg would be amenable – _I_ might have thought she would be amenable, if truth be told.” Erik sighs. “He has been calling here. The message pad by the telephone notes five times. Gustave told us about the calls.” Tossing the pad aside, he says, “I suppose I must see him.”

“I would be more than happy to accompany you.”

“Of course you would.”

“If he is intending some sort of blackmail or threat – it would not hurt to have a policeman…”

“Former policeman.”

“Whatever,” Nadir grunts. “A witness, then.”

“Probably a good idea – despite my reputation here and now, if he is focused on the past in some way, better not to have it become a he said/he said situation.”

“Good, I shall be there shortly.”

“You want me to call him now?”

“Better sooner than later – as a part owner of Phantasma, I want this to be done with…we have an opening in a few days. I do not need a vengeance-seeking, petulant vicomte from Paris mucking things up.”

“Your vocabulary is expanding daily – you begin to rival me when speaking of our favorite peer of the realm,” Erik smirks. “Very well, I shall ring him and call you back.” As he replaces the receiver, the sprung bell set up outside of birthing room rings. Quickly retracing his steps down the hallway, he enters the room. “I am here, are you all right?”

Christine turns her head to the door, her eyes struggling to focus, trying to waken entirely. “I woke in a strange room. You were gone…the baby was gone,” she says, reaching her arms out to him. “I was confused and a little frightened. Joshua was so quiet. I could not find him.”

“You both were sleeping so soundly, I did not want to waken you,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed, embracing her – kissing the top of her head. The chestnut hair rumpled from her confinement in the bed, tiny curls forming around her face. God, she was beautiful. “Do you want to hold him? He is sleeping quite soundly – ate his fill, belched like a man and fell asleep – I have only been gone a few minutes.”

“No. Mercy, no. Let him sleep – there will be enough moments when he is awake and fussing for me to hold him. It was just a momentary fright.”

In the few moments since his return, he feels her relax. In other times, she would not be concerned to find him absent from their bed. This birth, the possible harm to the little boy, bothered her more than he suspected.

“Would you be terribly upset if I were to go out for a short time?”

Christine frowns. “Why? Must you? Is there a problem at the park?”

“Not at the park, exactly.”

“Then what? Exactly.”

“Nadir called and said that Raoul paid a visit to Meg after her rehearsal.”

“Really?”

“Unfortunately, she had one of her…episodes, which he witnessed.”

“Oh, dear.”

“He followed her and asked if she wished to be included in an effort to ruin me…after all this time.” He gets up and paces the room. His fingers playing some melody first in the air, then on his thighs, finally stopping when he grabs the back of one of the chairs at the small table, covered now with a small cloth and a vase of spring flowers. Flopping down in the chair, he says, “The man is an annoying gnat. Why can he not get on with his own life? Lord knows, he has the whole of Europe in which to do damage.”

“What do you suppose he might be up to?”

“Perhaps we will find out after this meeting. I hoped after the last business with the annulment, the fool was done with these vexations,” he says. “Nadir suggested he accompany me.”

“That makes sense.” Her brow furrows and lips purse. “I wonder…”

“What? You wonder what?”

“Where is that book? The one I picked on our recent visit to Manhattan. _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_?”

“On a shelf in the library along with other books of third-rate fiction. What would Raoul have to do with it?”

“His name is quite plainly used in the book – as is mine, for that matter. Elements of our relationship were quite accurate – uncomfortably so. At the time I wondered if someone here would connect the story to you…and me…and your purported crimes,” she says.

Erik frowns. “Much was true?”

“I thought you read it.”

Shaking his head, he says, “Only bits and pieces – it was poorly written and did not hold my attention.”

This response is greeted with a querulous look and chuckles from Christine. “Truly? The book was about you…how can you say it did not hold your attention?”

“Bits and pieces are what I read,” he mutters, through clenched teeth. “What else did you notice?”

“Nadir – even though you were not aware he was in Paris. I suppose Leroux interviewed everyone he could. He knew so much about us – even if not presented in an entirely truthful fashion.” Rolling to one side, she lifts herself up on an elbow, shifting her position in the bed. “I can only imagine what Phillippe thinks…particularly since he was killed off.” A soft laugh follows this last comment. “Phillipe is extremely protective of the family name…he must be furious. I did read Leroux claims the story is true – he was acting as a reporter, not a story teller. Perhaps that is why he used real names.”

“We both know it was not – my deformity for one thing – however terrible my face may be – I have a nose, and although my form is thin, none would think me a skeleton.”

Christine giggles. “Is that why you only read _bits and pieces?_ You are the silliest of men – so incredibly vain.”

“Why, because ugly though I may be, I object to someone suggesting my appearance be infinitely worse?”

“He did express a very vivid imagination in creating his Erik – although, like you, his Erik is a genius.”

“And I do not and never have smelled like death – my hygiene is perfect – I have even developed soaps and lotions…”

“My darling, you are getting carried away.”

“No one who knows me would believe that…that man in the book was me.”

“Erik, everyone knows the man in the book is you.”

“Who?”

“Most everyone here. I would see members of the crew passing a book around,” she says, continuing to adjust her position in the bed. “Help me with this pillow, would you?”

“Of course.” Jumping up from the chair, he takes the pillow, propping it behind her so she can lie back.

“Thank you.” Pull the covers up again, she says, “When they saw me, they would hide it.”

“But why think it was me?” He sits down in the chair next to the bed.

“Musical genius who wears a mask falls in love with a singer named Christine Daae,” she laughs. “Our employees are not stupid.”

“They do not care?”

“Of course not – they admire…I might even venture to suggest they love you.”

“But some of the things he wrote…”

“Do you suppose Raoul was his source? And then Mr. Leroux just used his imagination – it was supposed to be a ghost story, not a biography – a tale of horror.”

“But then became a tragic story of a deformed man who crawled on the floor to kiss the singer’s dress, crying all the time.”

“You cry and have cried,” Christine says, attempting to hold back a smile, but failing.

“You are finding this entirely too amusing.” Erik grimaces. “There is nothing wrong with crying when one has been wounded. However, Mr. Leroux’s Phantom seemed to have a spigot in his head ready to be turned on at any moment…I have no recollection of kissing your skirts…except the time in the Eyrie when you danced a remarkable Can-Can.” The uncovered eyebrow quirks and the dimple in his cheek appears before his half smile.

“I just gave birth, my husband, save your lust for another day.”

“I was only recalling…”

“Never mind,” she says. “I suppose if you are to find out what Raoul wants, you best leave before the hour gets much later.”

“Would you like me to get Helen or Julia to sit with you? A nurse will be here in the morning – I did not believe you wanted her tonight – but then, I was not planning to leave.”

“See if Gustave is awake – I think I should like his company…and he can help with Joshua, as he did with Emilie.”

“Done.” He gets up from the chair to kiss her a brief farewell. Looking down at his new son, he smiles. “Do not bother your mother too much tonight – she is quite exhausted from your welcome into the world.”

“I doubt he cares about that – the intake and outgo of food will be his primary job for a while, as you well know.” Reaching up for him, she says, “Come home quickly. I hope this business can be settled without much ado. This is so tiresome.”

After planting a kiss firmly on her lips, he leaves the room. Checking the kitchen, he finds Gustave, as suspected, chatting with Julia.

“I heard the bell, Mr. Erik, but Gustave said you would tend to Mrs. Christine,” Julia says as she gets to her feet, smoothing her apron.

“He was correct. You are fine.” Turning to Gustave he says, “I must go out for a while with Nadir. Could you sit with your mother? I should not like for her to be alone.”

Gustave jumps up from the small wooden table where the staff take their meals. “Of course, Papa. Where are you going?”

“To attend some to some personal business.”

“With Raoul?”

Erik assesses his son, no reason not to tell him – he is a young man now. This Julia is a lovely girl. Better he flirt with someone his own age, than suffer the attentions of Meg Giry. What are they going to do about her illness? Not having to think about her for several days was a needed break. From what Nadir said, it seems Adele might be stepping up – well, thank goodness.

“Yes, with Raoul.”

“Can I come along?”

“I thought you did not wish to see him.”

“Only if you are going to thrash him.”

Erik raises an eyebrow. “You wish for me to thrash him?”

“Maybe.”

“Hmmm. I think not on either point. Your mother specifically asked for you. Nadir is accompanying me, however, to ensure there will be no such activity.”

“Too bad, I should like to see him knocked about.”

Erik looks to Julia who has been following the conversation with her eyes. “I am not certain this is the conversation we should be having in front of this young lady.”

Gustave’s eyes widen, his face flushes. “I am sorry, Julia, I really do not wish Papa to thrash anyone.”

“Rest assured, Julia, my days of thrashing anyone has long passed.” He gives her his best smile.

“Yes, sir. My dad used to have go arounds with other men when he had a pint too many.”

“And now?”

“Mama told him if he kept getting into brawls she would stop cleaning his wounds and he could die of infection for all she cared.”

Erik and Gustave burst out laughing.

“Mrs. Christine would likely threaten me in kind. In fact, she did just that, only not in those words and not with that punishment, but with the same intent.”

“Yes, sir.” A dimpled smile crinkles the corners of her round eyes.

Patting his son on the back, Erik says, “Gustave – to your mother’s room. I must call Raoul and Nadir.”

The daroga pulls away from the curb in front of the Bay Ridge mansion. The street is dark and quiet, except for the sound of the waves lapping against the bulwarks. “I must say, this automobile does run smoothly,” Erik says, settling into the passenger seat of Nadir’s poison green Matheson.

“For the money I paid, it should.”

“I still wonder at your choice of color.”

“I have reached an age where I am willing to be a little bolder than I might have been in my youth.”

“Moving to America certainly changed you.”

“I might offer the same observation to you as well – the man…boy I knew in Persia is unrecognizable.”

“For the better, I hope.”

“Infinitely better,” Nadir says, stealing a look at the man he brought to Persia, only for him to be enslaved. “What do you suppose the vicomte wants?”

“My demise,” Erik states flatly before continuing in a more thoughtful tone. “A return to the days when he was considered a hero, had the love of Christine, was a respected member of the nobility?”

“Do you think he has anything damaging…after all these years?”

“Christine believes it has something to do with that book – _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra._ ”

“Did you read it?”

“Bits and pieces” is Erik’s curt response, his shoulders tighten as he crosses his legs and arms.

Nadir side eyes him. “Bits and pieces? It is so obviously about you.”

“So I understand.”

“Granted, there was a lot of fantasy.”

“You think so?”

“How do you think I felt – half of the tale was told by me and I met Leroux but once”

“You were not portrayed as a half-mad, murderous, skeleton who slept in a coffin of all places.”

“So you did read it.” Nadir laughs.

“Of course I read it! It was about me!”

“But you are redeemed in the end.”

“I die in the end and Christine runs off with that idiot Raoul to the north or some damned place,” Erik grumbles. “Made me look like a fool, crying all over the place, her not even able to look at me – some redemption."

“Well, you did best him – I mean, really, you almost let me die in your torture chamber.”

“I never even knew you were in Paris – where did that come from? I put a noose around his neck – there was no torture chamber.” Erik pauses his rant to face Nadir. “When did you meet Leroux?”

“You heard me, did you?” Nadir sighs. “There was a party – the re-opening of the Opera House. He was attracted to my Astrakhan hat of all things. We got into a conversation and I told him about a man I knew in Persia…you…and some of your abilities – the music, architecture. I may have joked that you could easily have been the Opera Ghost.”

“You told him about me?”

“You are a rather unique character, in case you were not aware of it.”

“You inspired the damned book.”

“Hardly, he used me as a character, certainly…”

“A rather significant character…”

“But all he took from me was a very sketchy description of you and elements of your life as I knew them.”

“I suppose he spoke to a number of people.”

“Erik, the Phantom or Opera Ghost was a dominant feature of the Palais Garnier – likely the most memorable thing anyone there experienced then or since.”

Relaxing his arms, chest puffed out, almost swaggering in his seat, Erik’s laugh is low, barely perceptible. “A most entertaining time, I must admit.”

“You enjoyed terrifying those poor people.”

“Oh, posh – I added excitement to their poor lives. Until…”

“Christine?”

“She was my sun – years hiding in one way or another – always in darkness. When I heard her sing - the purist sound – the purist soul. Every ugly occurrence in my life was cleansed with her arrival in my life.”

“Things changed.”

“I was possessed by feelings I never knew before. I would have been content to be her teacher, to have our friendship, such as it was. The kindness and her talent – truly an angel.”

“But Raoul entered the picture.”

“Raoul Vicomte de Chagny appeared from her past and there was no turning back.” Erik turns his head away from his friend to gaze at the houses they drive past, asleep for the night – only an odd lamp still on in a few of the grand homes. The glare of the carnival lights would be upon them again shortly, once they near the hub of Coney Island – Luna Park and Steeplechase, alive and active. The fire is still a presence, but not infringing on the entertainment being sought by travelers from all over the country.

A false joviality in many instances – people looking for ways to leave their mundane lives behind for a short while – much as they did in Paris attending performances at the Opera House. His own amusement came from pranks and tricks – thus entertaining the entertainers, or so he believed it to be.

Christine made his life almost perfect. He could not let her go and with that determination, he became slightly mad. “That was thirteen…fourteen years ago,” he says, breaking the silence.

“Raoul was here three years ago,” Nadir says, “which is when he met me. It is possible he was at the event when I met Leroux.”

Erik sighs. “I will not allow him to destroy all I have worked for – we have worked for.”

“That will not happen, no matter what he does.” Nadir glances at him. “There is no need to threaten him. No one here will support his efforts.”

“I would like to kill him,” Erik says, matter of factly. “I think sometimes it was a mistake not to have done so when I had the chance.”

“You would never have had any of this if he died back then,” Nadir says. “Do you really think Christine would have married you – with Raoul dead? If anything about that book makes sense about you, it was letting them go. That was the real you, no matter how you are physically described.”

“Well, here we are,” Erik says as they pull up in front of the hotel.

The bell captain comes away from his post to assist them from the car. “Mr. Y, Mr. Khan.”

“Good evening, Charles,” both men respond.

Nadir says, “Could you park the car somewhere we can access it easily, I do not expect we will be here very long.”

“Very well, sir.”

Erik precedes Nadir through the revolving door leading to the main lobby. “Albert is gone. I asked him to escort Raoul to my office.”

“Then we should not keep him waiting.”

“Salaud.”*

“Erik!”

“Je m’en fous.**

“You must restrain yourself.”

“I will be perfect.”

“Of course you will.”

Erik throws him a sharp look. “I will be perfect. All this talk of that book has given me an idea. If he dies it will be from what I say, not what I do. This is the end of Raoul de Chagny’s interference in my life. I swear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Son-of-a-bitch/whore/slut  
> **I don’t give a shit.
> 
> The last translation also applies to the reviewer who doesn't care for my writing. I will say, there have been a number of stories I haven't cared for, but have never been rude and hateful to the authors - which are qualities you appear to possess. Don't like it, don't read it.


	14. Playing a Different Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Devil Take the Hindmost redux - sort of... This time Nadir is present.

Raoul wishes the concierge would leave, but, of course that is impossible, he is being treated like a prison inmate – elaborate surroundings, notwithstanding. The man, although not looking at him directly gives the impression of knowing his soul and is none too pleased with what he sees – a feeling he finds himself experiencing wherever he has gone since arriving at Phantasma, particularly after the amiable Miss Fleck allowed him access to the inner sanctum of the park. Incredible presence for someone who in another place would be scorned and looked down upon – figuratively and literally in her case. Mildly ashamed of the smirk curving his lips at the little joke he creates for himself. Their venture to the theater was faux pas not to be repeated. Perhaps he should have opted for Jack’s to retain some semblance of autonomy.

Studying Albert from the corner of his eye, he senses the quirk of an eyebrow, rather than actually seeing any movement – the man might be a statue. Performers, all of them. The place was one act of a play after another – this was not a real concierge, but an actor playing a role – he was too perfect. Not a hotel in Paris would you find anyone so completely in charge of himself.

If this was how a mere employee makes him feel… His stomach drops at the thought of Mr. Y, the Phantom, the monster…what the hell was his name? Erik, yes, Erik. How had Leroux come to know his name? Raoul did not know it. If Christine knew she never enlightened him. The Persian – Raoul told Gaston about _a Persian_ he met when here when his world fell apart, even if his physical life was left intact. Was his Persian the same one from the book – had he known of the Phantom?

Shaking off his anxiety about the balding man, standing watch over him from the doorway, he looks about the room – Erik’s office. A baby grand piano sits at one end, an embroidered shawl in vivid colors – hues of burgundies and deep blues trimmed with gold tassels – graces the instrument, held in place by a crystal vase filled with lavender.

Next to the vase, a relatively simple picture frame catches his eye. Unwilling to allow the concierge to witness his curiosity, he contents himself by first strolling to the French doors leading to a small balcony. “May I?”

Albert nods. “Of course, allow me,” he says, walking past Raoul to open them for him. “The view is quite exceptional – the ocean – more visible earlier in the evening, of course, but with a full moon, one can watch the waves crest and break. The fragrance of the sea is quite refreshing. I find when a day’s work is complete, there is nothing so invigorating than leaving the hotel to walk along the boardwalk. I feel most fortunate to have employment here.”

“Indeed?” Raoul is tempted to engage in conversation with the man – so proper in his gray pin striped suit – the fabric almost as fine as his own navy blue serge. He has not had a conversation of substance with anyone since leaving Paris – the cruise itself left him feeling more isolated than he expected. This man, however, loves the ocean – something in common – one of the few places he feels at home.

Raoul misses the sea – Perros, but also what he feels was his calling in the Navy. Marrying Christine forced him to put that aside. The whole affair at the Garnier disrupted a life plan he dreamed of since he was a child. A Naval commission would maintain his stature in the family, making the title Vicomte something earned, not merely a token thanks to Phillippe’s influence. The power of the water itself drew him – the mystery of the depths, where even the calmest sea could bring disaster if disrespected and taken for granted.  
  
“This is Mr. Y’s office?”

“One of them.”

“This was once his residence, I believe.”

“You would have to ask him, sir.”

“Of course.” A good servant this Albert. He wished the servants at the Chagny manor were so discreet. A further survey of the room finds a pair of closed doors – likely the bedroom and bathroom. This was definitely where the man who stole his wife lay his trap for her…for both of them...or so he suspects.

He supposes he should take a seat on the deep red velvet sofa, but he fears he might be too unsettled. Would it be too strange for him to walk to the piano? To look at the photograph? Curiosity burns in his chest. A craving similar to the desire for alcohol still haunting him.

“Odd to have a piano in one’s office,” he comments, using the conversation to move him closer to the instrument.

“The master is a musician.”

“Of course,” Raoul says. “I am no expert, but this is a fine instrument.” A strange sense of relief as he reaches his destination. Albert does not stop him. The concierge merely continues to watch him with an impersonal interest largely unchanged since his greeting at the door to his room, advising he would escort him to Mr. Y’s office. The small revelation about working at the seaside, his only lapse as a guardian.

The photograph was recent – not an older daguerreotype. A family portrait. Raoul is moderately surprised to see _him_ in the picture – masked of course, but the glimmer of a smile on the half of his face that was visible. Then realizes Erik is the first face he looked for. Shifting his gaze quickly to Christine – her smile is glorious – no other word for it. Reminiscent of the rooftop when they were in love for a moment.

Gustave is more young man than child…how he has grown. His face more sculptured, not round and childlike as he remembered him until now. Then the little girl sitting on Erik’s, not her mother’s lap. Unlike Gustave, she does not resemble her mother at all – this must be how her father might look – pale eyes with raven-colored locks. Even at such a young age, the smile is knowing and assured. An old soul his Aunt Lucy would say.

He turns away to find Albert studying him. Grinning uncomfortably, he returns to the window. “A lovely family – the little girl.”

“Emilie.” A smile breaks across the concierge’s face. “Quite the little lady.”

“A charmer, some might say.”

“Would you care for a brandy, Vicomte?” Albert indicates a small bar set up next to the French doors. “It is quite a fine cognac.”

Raoul follows the direction of the man’s hand, pausing a moment, his eyes taking in the amber liquid beckoning him. Would one or two fingers hurt? A small taste to calm the ripple of nerves running rampant through his body. There would be no time for another – no fear of drunkenness. He shakes his head. One now – one later, once he leaves this elegant room looking out on the world, to return to a small hotel room where a similar bottle of spirits awaits for his return. “No, thank you.”

Where is he? Time moves so slowly when waiting. Growing fatigued from standing, he succumbs to the allure of the tufted sofa and sits down. Facing him is a panoply of photographs, the silver frames freshly polished. Leaning over he sees several of Christine performing and Gustave playing his violin. Artistically posed – one appears to be a playbill for the theater. A baby, he assumes to be Emilie, in a basket holding up a rattle, another sitting at a table with a large birthday cake in front of her. No others of the masked man – not surprising – even one photograph must have taken a measure of coaxing.

Some the others are vaguely familiar – older than the portrait on the piano…another baby…Gustave. Several of Christine with Gustave at various ages from infant to just about the time they left Paris to come to New York. Once family portraits, his image has been deftly cut from each of them – the empty space replaced with scraps of colored paper and dried flowers. Of course, he sent these to her – what did he want with them?

Anger flares then dies, leaving a sharp pain in its wake. Once again he questions himself – what are you doing here? A business proposition, he reminds himself. Strictly business. Something benefitting all of them…or bringing the monster down, if all went as he hoped.

The door bursts open, Erik enters the room with the same energy Raoul remembers from years past. Somehow he expected the man, monster, ghost would have aged – become crippled, but his power only seemed to grow. The Persian follows him into the room – a more realistic representation of his age and role in life. Raoul jumps to his feet. “Mr. Y. Mr. Khan.” The beating of his heart slows at the appearance of the other man. Relief. Nothing so far has fit in with his expectations. He would make his offer and hope for the best.

“Sit. Sit,” Erik says, the voice even more impressive now than over the telephone. “Albert – thank you for keeping the Vicomte company – if not entertained. Did you offer him a drink?”

“I did, sir, but he refused – we did look at the ocean and boardwalk for a time.”

“Very well, you may return to the desk…or home if it time for the new shift.”

“Home it is,” Albert gives a short bow. “Gentlemen, I bid you all good night.” He turns and leaves, closing the door softly behind him.

“I do not know about you, but that man intimidates the hell out of me – he is entirely too perfect,” Nadir says, finding his way to a cabinet behind the piano. “Would anyone care for tea?” Taking a kettle from a shelf, he goes to one of the closed doors.

Erik has yet to take his eyes off Raoul – relishing the vision of the younger man so uneasy. Too bad he did not indulge in the brandy. He is quite sober. Terrified, but sober. Did losing Christine have that great an effect on him? He would have imagined the nobleman would drink more not less.

“Tea would be refreshing, thank you. I find I am quite thirsty,” Raoul says, returning to his place on the sofa, focusing his eyes on the wall behind and above Erik’s head. The shelves house an extensive library. Settled in a corner is a large gramophone with another photograph of Christine beside it.

“For me, also, daroga. We shall have a nice sober conversation,” Erik says, sitting down in one of a pair of high backed occasional chairs upholstered in soft brown leather. Relaxing into the chair, he puts his feet up on a matching ottoman. “There might be some biscuits in the cupboard above the sink. I like to keep something here for snacking and to offer visitors.”

“Success,” Nadir says, carrying the kettle now filled with water in one hand and a plate of molasses and walnut cookies in the other. He sets the kettle on a hotplate he plugs into the wall.

Erik and Raoul watch as the Persian goes about the homely chores, each taking measure of the other with occasional side glances.

Tea brewed and served – Nadir takes the matching chair next to Erik and the three men drink their tea.

The silence has been surprisingly comfortable – Nadir’s presence absorbs some of the natural tension present between Erik and Raoul, even without any words being spoken. Erik finds he is glad his friend insisted on being present. His feelings are decidedly mixed about the younger man seated on the couch. Any rash behavior he might have indulged in squelched by the companionable sipping of tea.

Whatever bravado that convinced Raoul to come here to Phantasma is not apparent in his posture or his energy. Perhaps the visit to Meg and Adele took the wind out of his sails. In any event, he is quite pathetic.

It does not go unnoticed how Raoul’s eyes keep returning to the photographs on the coffee table. When Christine placed them randomly in groupings, he wondered at her choice. However, the times he finds himself seated there, he sees his wife and son – their history – a history he was not a part of – in one section. Another – a display of them performing – with his guidance and participation. Lastly, two pictures of Emilie – the framing of her most recent sitting interrupted by Joshua’s early arrival. Soon his first photograph will join the others.

This is where he comes when the days at the park became too much for him – too many people, too many arguments, too much activity. After years of being alone, a life so full was often too much for him to bear. The self he believed he left behind would rear its face. Impatience, cross words and bouts of temper he works hard to control take hold of him. The Eyrie offers no respite – the workshop was just that. Christine’s suggestion he turn his former apartment into a retreat was fulfilled and here he finds peace with his family when he cannot be with them in person.

Their eyes finally meet. Raoul offering a small smile, “Gustave is growing into a fine young man.”

“Yes, he is – he is his mother’s son.”

“True enough – it would appear that has not changed,” Raoul says.

“What do you want?” Erik asks, his tone surprisingly mild, as he puts his cup down on the small table between the chairs.

Raoul looks to Nadir, who shrugs. “I am a witness, nothing more – pretend I am not here.”

Raoul cannot help but laugh. “I have no weapon, if that is what concerns you.”

“Ah, so I will not be shot in the back.”

“You were on my loggia…trespassing.”

“Still – there is something unseemly about shooting someone in the back, would you not say?”

“I did not know it was you.”

“Mr. Leroux’s book suggests otherwise,” Nadir interjects with a shrug.

“You read the book?”

“Did you think we would not – I forgot about it until Christine mentioned it tonight – quite a story you told?”

“It was true,” he says, looking to the daroga. “You yourself spoke to Gaston. You told him far more than I.”

“Did I?” Nadir places his cup next to Erik’s and gets up to walk to the French doors, exiting to the balcony, closing them behind him.

Once they are alone, Erik says, “Why are you here? The last time you took the money your wife earned to pay off your debts. Was that not enough for you? Or did you think this would be some sort of replay of the time you rallied the police and the mob to kill me?”

“No,” Raoul says. “Perhaps. I do not know.”

“Do you have a life at all?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then I ask you again – why are you here?”

Raoul puts his tea cup on the coffee table, careful not to disturb the photo display. “This was a mistake. I see that now.”

“You disrupt my rehearsals. Call my home repeatedly, upsetting my son.” Standing up, his presence fills the room. “My wife gave birth to another son today and I am here with you, instead of home with them you spoiled, irresponsible imbecile.”

“I am sorry,” Raoul says, making his way to the door.

“Stop, you do not get to leave so easily,” Erik growls. “Sit down.”

Raoul halts his progress toward the door.

“I said: sit down.”

With slumped shoulders, head lowered, the Vicomte returns to the sofa.

“Tell me,” Erik says, eyes slits, watching the younger man deflate.

Raoul shakes his head, now pressed into his hands.

“It _was_ the book,” Erik smirks. “Christine was right. You helped him with his story and he made you out to be a fool. Oh, a good looking and erstwhile fool, but a fool nonetheless.”

“That is not true – Raoul…the character…was a hero…and Christine chose him in the end.”

“Christine saved his stupid life – he could not even remember to hold his hands at the level of his eyes. The Phantom let them go because of her goodness, not due to any of your actions.”

Raoul sighs deeply. “You are correct. I am a laughing stock. Leroux promised I would have a happy ending – but running away to the north never to be seen again is hardly a happy ending now, is it?”

“Only if you like being poor and living in the cold. Poor Erik at least got his kiss and a sort of redemption, then had the good grace to die – a gift to him, I suppose. At least Nadir survived.”

“I am sorry.”

“Yes, you said that,” Erik says, walking to the French doors. Knocking on the glass, he motions Nadir to come in before walking to the credenza to pour himself a brandy. “Are you certain you do not wish a drink?”

Raoul shakes his head, “No, I no longer imbibe.”

“If you are asking me, my answer is also no,” Nadir re-enters the room.

“Practicing your faith again?”

“I am driving – we are not at home.”

“Suit yourselves.”

“Thank you for inviting me back inside – admiring the scenery is quite limited at night and there is nowhere to sit on your little balcony.”

“You chose to leave.”

“Excuse me for having manners,” Nadir says, returning to the armoire to fix himself another cup of tea, grabbing a cookie, before returning to his chair. “So, tell me, what was it that brought you here from France?”

“He wants validation – gratitude – redemption, if you will.”

“You think this is amusing?” Raoul asks.

“Consider yourself lucky I can find some humor in all of this and not the creature you imagined for your author friend.” Erik leans against the piano, glancing at the photograph, adjusting the placement on the throw.

“So it was the book?” Nadir asks, crossing his legs as he relaxes into his chair.

“Yes. It. Was. The. Book.” Raoul growls, falling back against the tufted velvet, pounding his fists on the cushions of the couch.

“That still does not explain what you hoped to achieve by coming here – I know I joked about everyone here turning on me, but you knew that would not work.”

“Did you think you could have Erik arrested here and returned to France?” Nadir asks, frowning. “Why, to salve some hurt feelings – something you brought on yourself – you would try to destroy a man for your own folly?”

“No. I do not know,” Raoul says, tears threaten to fall. “I was tired of being mocked.”

“How did you think revealing where I was…who I became would help,” Erik asks. “I left because at the time you were still pressing the police to arrest me…then there was the mob you roused. My home destroyed. Your M. Leroux was much kinder to me.”

“You almost killed me – does that mean nothing?”

“But I did not kill you. I allowed you to live because I loved Christine. I left, even though she came to me, knowing she would return to you,” Erik says. “Does that mean nothing?”

“She did not want me – I look around this room and see her love.”

Erik concentrates his focus on the distressed man sitting on his couch. So different from the cocky would-be hero – calling the police to arms to kill him. “Do you really believe that knowing I am alive will change anything – that perhaps another book might be written? That you will be a hero for discovering the monster still lives?”

“Perhaps.”

“You could have told him years ago I was alive.” Erik walks to the bookcase. Opening a drawer, he removes a manuscript and tosses it to Raoul.

“What is this?”

“I call it _Love Never Dies_ after the aria I wrote for Christine’s performance _._ It is an opera roughly based on the time after I left Paris and came here to Coney Island.”

“Those three days – when we believed Oscar Hammerstein wanted Christine to perform?”

“Yes – I thought it might be an interesting show.”

“You decided to scrap that idea,” Nadir says. “Too dreary and no likable characters – we all hated it. Although had you included me in the libretto, it may have been watchable.”

Erik throws Nadir a fierce look – eyes hard as the amber they resemble.

“You would seriously revive the idea?” Nadir asks.

Erik’s stare loses not of its intensity. “The music is beautiful.”

Feigning a shiver, Nadir makes his way to the credenza. “Maybe I will have a taste of the cognac after all.”

“I do not understand.”

“I did nothing wrong for anyone to be wanting my head in Paris _or_ New York.”

“Persia, possibly,” Nadir comments. “Of course that would put my head in jeopardy as well, if word got back somehow.”

“What are you talking about?” Raoul asks.

“Persia?”

“No – you not being wanted.”

“I did nothing worthy of police interest besides being a nuisance,” Erik says. “No one died by my hand – least of all your brother.” The golden eyes gleam. “How did the oh-so staid and honorable Phillippe Comte de Chagny react to his not-so-staid and honorable behavior with the lovely Sorelli being disclosed to the reading public…Hmmm?”

Raoul frowns, his face pale and grim.

Erik allows himself a chuckle. “Besides, I am worth more to the Palais Garnier as a ghost, who may or may not have lived – the same for Mr. Leroux – he is promoting the story as true, is he not? My appearance as the maestro of a Coney Island amusement park would not fit in with his story…now would it?”

“Producing this opera could affect his sales and he might find a reason to have the police come after you – thus creating a sequel for him.”

“Now you are grasping at straws,” Erik smirks, returning to his chair.

“If I were you, Vicomte de Chagny, I would go home on the next available vessel,” Nadir says. “Were you not a naval officer? Perhaps you might wish to reconsider a commission. Leave all of this behind. Your fantasies are not going to fare well for you.”

“Meg said the same thing to me.” Raoul rests his head in his hands.

“Well, she is correct – her sanity is returning,” the daroga mutters. “Finally.”

“She did seem out of sorts…at the rehearsal.” Looking up at the Persian, a spark of fire returns to his eyes.

“I suggest you forget that and everything else about this place,” Erik says. “I seem to recall giving you that instruction once before and you failed miserably.”

“Yes, well, I see my visit has come to an end.” Pressing his hands on his thighs, Raoul rises from the sofa.

“I should not worry about your reputation too much – if I am not mistaken, your entire ruse centers around _your_ image,” Nadir offers. “Trash novels are forgotten in few months, if not weeks.”

“True enough,” Erik agrees. “ _Le Fantome de l’Opera_ will fade from view, as do most of these mysteries. In a year or so, no one will remember The Phantom or Raoul de Chagny.”

“So you are not concerned at all?” Raoul asks, shooting his cuffs before straightening his jacket.

“You are the one who crossed the Atlantic…ostensibly to blackmail me – instead we find out it is you who are suffering,” Erik says. “How much more plainly can we put this to you – no one cares about me – at least in regard to this book.”

“You do not want to return to Paris, do you?” Nadir asks, taking a sip of his drink. His face scrunches up at the taste. “How do you drink this? It is vile poison.”

“That is a very fine Armagnac.”

Taking another sip, allowing the liquor to linger on his tongue, Nadir’s face takes on a more satisfied mien. “The warmth is actually very nice.”

“There, I told you.”

“You did not answer me, Vicomte,” Nadir turns his attention to the younger man again.

“He did move up his arrival date – two weeks hence was the original date of arrival, as I recall,” Erik says.

“No. I do not want to be in Paris,” Raoul growls. “Yes, I am being ridiculed. Although I can assure you both, they cannot rival this display.”

“We do have a gift,” Nadir smirks.

“Sit down,” Erik says, waving his hand at the sofa.

Raoul frowns.

“Sit down… _please,”_ Erik repeats, rolling his eyes as he lifts his feet onto the ottoman.

Raoul and Nadir both cock their heads at the addition of the pleasantry.

“ _Please?”_ Nadir says.

“All of this is making me quite weary.” Erik takes another sip of his drink. “My wife…your former wife…gave birth to a son today…my son. I would prefer being home with her and my other children instead of debating what happened years ago – that is of no meaning to anyone here.”

“It means something to me,” Raoul objects.

“Yes, you, and people around the world, who see it as entertainment,” Erik continues. “While some may see you as a foolish fop, I imagine there are any number of women who will think you a hero and be very happy in your company.”

Nadir challenges Raoul with his green eyes. “Is that the case?”

“I suppose so,” Raoul says, his face flushing. “A few ladies thought I was very brave to challenge the ghost.”

“There you go.” Erik raises his last in a mock toast before finishing the drink and putting the glass on the end table. “You are welcome to stay as long as you like – we open in a few days. I am sure Christine would like to visit with you. You are welcome to our home. I cannot promise Gustave will be gracious. He is of an age where his moods shift with the wind, often mid-sentence…but, if you wish to see him, I am certain he will comply.”

“What are you saying?”

Erik stands up. “Are you deaf, too? I am finished with this rivalry or whatever it is you seem to want to continue. I have made you a cordial invitation. You may accept it or not, I do not care. I am going home to my family and Nadir is going home to his.”

His eyes focus on Raoul’s – blank – neither angry nor friendly. Waiting.

Brows furrowed, Raoul returns Erik’s gaze. “I see.” After a few moments contemplation, he, too, gets to his feet. Once again he straightens his jacket and turns to leave. Stopping at the door, he looks back one more time to nod at the two older men. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he says, “I shall telephone you tomorrow.” Shaking his head, he exits the room.

The door soundly shut, the old friends pause before allowing themselves a release of pent-up laughter.

“Whatever prompted that display of graciousness?” Nadir asks, clearing up the dirty cups and glasses, returning them to the kitchen.

“I came here tonight completely prepared to rail into him from cursing his birth to threatening his life.”

“That could still be accomplished – it would not take much…a word or two…for him to go missing.” The daroga says. “Not that I am advocating such behavior, of course, but I understand your frustration.”

“Perhaps knowing the potential was enough,” Erik says, circling the room, making certain the French doors are secure and the lamps are turned off. “Ultimately, I simply do not care. Christine would, though, and, for me, that is what counts. No harm shall befall him.”

“No more jealousy?”

“No.”

“Then seeing him again was worth it?”

“I suppose so – we cannot tell him his journey halfway across the world to destroy me, actually freed me from a cursed demon.” Erik lays a hand companionably on his friend’s shoulder as they leave the room. “All in all a good day.”

“Home then?”

“Yes, home sounds good.” Erik checks his pocket watch. “Joshua is likely fussing about now. If I must deal with the demands of a child, I prefer the child be an actual infant.”


	15. Backward Glances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recollections of the past when Raoul visits with Christine and Gustave.

“Must you go?” Christine asks, placing Joshua in the cradle set up for him in the Conservatory before turning to Erik. “I wish you could be here today.”

“We open tomorrow night, dearest one, and I have two leading ladies to prepare,” he says, bending over to press his lip on the baby’s forehead, before taking Christine in his arms. “You look particularly beautiful today.”

“Only wishing to entice you to stay.” She offers him her full lips, rouged in a shade of persimmon complementing her tea dress of peach, green and cream shantung – stylishly draped to disguise her post birth tummy. “You are allowing Meg to perform, then?”

“You know very well the absence of garments is what I find enticing,” he chuckles, nibbling on her ear. “Meg is alternating shows with Maizie – they will each take the lead in three performances – Meg because she is fragile…Maizie because she is new.”

“Come home early.” Leaning into him, she runs her fingers along his jawline.

“You are making this very difficult.” Erik pulls her close with no resistance, to kiss her deeply.

So deeply, Maman swoons as she clutches Papa’s jacket collar bringing him closer still. Gustave turns beet red at a display never seen between his parents. A display he should not be witnessing now. Moving swiftly past the open doorway, he continues on his path to the front room of the house.

Despite reading as many books as he can pilfer from his father’s library and eavesdropping on an interlude here and there back stage at Phantasma, there is something so sensual…and loving…in what he just observed, he feels embarrassed and proud at the same time for the same reason…these are his parents.

So many of the boys at the school he attends are not so fortunate – so many of their mothers seem angry or just sad, whenever they do make an appearance at the concerts or parent visits. Many of the boys travel from other parts of the state to attend the private school. Gustave is lucky he can live at home. He wonders if the mothers are so displeased because they cannot have their sons with them. For himself, he cannot imagine a life without Maman being close by.

The fathers are often cold and act as if visiting their sons is a chore. Much like Raoul treated him. Papa, on the other hand, was always happy to have Gustave around. Except of course in times like this. He doubts Papa…or Maman, especially Maman, would appreciate being seen loving one another…in this way.

His private ministrations continue – trying to stop attending to his need only makes the need stronger. The fact that Papa leaves certain books in plain sight, suggests he understands what Gustave is going through. After seeing his parent together just now, the act he performs in private with earlier fantasies about Meg and some of the other dancers, however stimulating they were, are now just shallow. He wants to be with someone…to love someone.

Ever since Julia came to the house, he spends every moment he can in her presence – much to the chagrin of Helen who needs her sister to help with the housework. The new wet nurse began work two days prior and assists with the care of Emilie as well. There is talk of Miss Fleck moving in to help with the twins, teaching them, much as she taught him until he was secure enough to attend school.

The house is becoming filled with women and if he cannot be with Julia, he prefers going with Papa to Phantasma now that school is over for the season. Most days this is not a problem – Erik enjoys teaching Gustave about the park and enjoys hearing Gustave’s input about developing new attractions.

Today, however, he is to stay home with his mother.

Perching on the window seat in the bay window, Gustave pushes aside the white voile curtains an inch, just enough to peer out to the street without anyone looking up at the house might notice. Not that he thinks people can see much – the house being set high off the street – the stairway leading to the entry daunting to anyone wishing to peddle their wares or religion. If Maman happens to be near the front door, however, and someone accepting the challenge, rings the bell or knocks, she will acknowledge whoever made the trek up the stairs to listen politely to what they have to say.

_“The person who comes to the door is either trying to earn a living and who is to say I might not wish to buy what he is selling.”_

_“But the preachers, Maman?”_

_“One can always learn about God – be it from preachers or those others may consider evil.”_

_“But if they knew about us…our life…Phantasma…”_

_“How they feel about us matters less than the way we treat them, Gustave,” Christine replied. “That is the real way one learns about God.”_

The way she looked at him when explaining this truth always struck him to be less about happenstance visitors than relationships closer to home. As far as his memory will take him, he cannot recall his mother being cruel or rude to anyone – even when _he_ believed that person to be more than deserving of her scorn and ridicule.

Today her philosophy would be put to the test again. His watch keeping is very specific – Raoul is coming to call and none of them is particularly happy about the visit. Papa explained the vicomte came a long way to talk to them about _that_ book and it would be rude to ignore his presence. Gustave wondered at the use of the word rude, Papa never seemed to have a problem being rude when the mood suited him.

When he returned home from his meeting the other night, he only told Gustave he believed any issues with Raoul were resolved and the vicomte wanted only to have a perfunctory visit with him and Christine. After which, Papa thanked him for taking care of his mother and the new baby and sent him off to bed.

Although he stood in the hallway for a few minutes, hoping to hear the conversation between his parents, his scheme was short-lived when Erik came to the door and shooed him upstairs. “Listeners never hear any good of themselves.”

Gustave did not really believe they would be talking about him – at least not at any great length – but the message was clear – do not spy. Papa was always so adamant about not lurking when he caught Gustave eavesdropping. How was he to know what was going on – no one told him anything – he was still a child? Could he help it if he was adept at slipping about back stage behind the scrims or climbing in the flies? Papa always knew and was always able to find him, however silent and surreptitious he was.

_“Your father is the master of the game of hide and seek.”_

When Gustave got his hands on the book he overheard them talking about, he understood. The story both amuses and upsets him. How much of what was written is true? Especially about his mother and the man he called father for ten years. Papa certainly did not look like the Erik described in the book – he did not speak like him and he did not act like him. He was always physically affectionate with Gustave and the rest of the family – although when others came too close, he froze or became so anxious he could not control his hands. But then, who likes people just touching you for no reason at all? He certainly did not.

The most troubling thought was that Papa killed anyone – or wanted to kill anyone.

Would the meeting with Raoul today reveal anything of that time? He would soon find out…if the conversation moved in that direction…and Maman would allow it. Papa’s past is off limits unless he brings it up…which is not often. The story about his time with the Thuggees drove Gustave to the library to read whatever he could find. They were even more brutal than described. Papa must have been very special for them to spare him and to actually welcome him into their midst.

This raises the question again about whether Papa killed – could one be a Thuggee and not murder? Why did Papa feel the need to learn how to use the Punjab lasso? Gustave simply cannot reconcile the man he has known as his father for these past three years could be like the man in that book.

If he was being truthful, he was the only one upset at being wrangled into the visit. Maman merely wanted Papa to be there as well. Papa obviously was not concerned, so Gustave would just have to see what might transpire during the visit.

As if sensing his presence, his father waves as he rounds the corner, driving past the house on his way to the park. In the nick of time, it would seem, if he was hoping to avoid Raoul. The cab pulls up in front. Gustave wonders mildly if the two men saw one another as they passed briefly just now.

Not waiting for the bell to announce Raoul’s presence at the heavy wooden doors, inlaid with heavy scrolled glass, Gustave flings one of the doors open just as the man he knew as Pere reaches the top step. “Hello, Raoul.”

The older man stops, balancing on the porch, slightly taken aback at the unexpected greeting. Taking a deep breath after the arduous climb, his eyes survey the boy…man. “You have grown – I hardly recognized you,” Raoul says. “I daresay you and I may be of the same height.”

“Yes. I believe I am,” Gustave responds holding the door open, allowing Raoul to pass. “I wish I had been taller when we were still in Paris.”

Raoul turns to look at the boy, an eyebrow quirked.

“Do not look as if you do not know what I am speaking of.” Gustave closes the door, moves past the vicomte, motioning he follow him to the rear of the house.

“Mr. Y said your feelings about me were mixed.”

“What he likely said was I might be amenable one minute and argumentative the next – my feelings have not changed.”

“Was I that terrible?” Raoul asks, stopping in his tracks, taking Gustave by the arm.

The boy pulls away. “Do not lay a hand on me…or my mother.”

“What I did just now was to simply stop our walking – I would really like to know – was I that terrible?”

“I suppose you were always too drunk to know,” Gustave snorts. “Yes, you were terrible and pathetic. I prayed you would be sober just once and notice me as someone worth your time, but you never were.”

“I am sorry, Gustave,” Raoul says, reaching for the boy’s shoulder, but holding back before touching him. “I have not had a drink since I left here three years ago. Mainly thanks to your uncle Phillippe.”

“He is not my uncle.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“He was rude to my mother.”

“That is true enough – the household was not pleasant for either of you, was it?”

“Did you tell that writer how horrible things were for her?” Gustave plants himself in front of the older man. “No, I suppose not – you ran off to the north to live happily ever after.”

“You read the book?”

“I did – we all did,” Gustave begins walking again. “Is that why you are here – to explain yourself?”

“Your father was more accepting of the story,” Raoul forces a laugh. “As far as your mother, you read the book. What did she say?”

“Nothing – she has said nothing,” he grumbles. “My father is more forgiving of you than I am – I lived with you for ten years, remember?”

Talk stops as they near the end of the hallway. “Maman is in the conservatory waiting for you.”

“You are not staying?”

“Yes, I am staying,” Gustave replies. “I am going to fetch our tea. Maman wanted to wait until you arrived so the tea would be hot and the croissants fresh.”

“Do you imagine we are going to quarrel?”

“I do not know, but if you do, I shall be there,” Gustave says, lifting his hand.

Raoul flinches.

“I am simply directing you to the entrance to the conservatory.” Letting his arm drop, he waves his hand instead. “Here we are.”

“Gustave is that you?” Christine calls. “Have you heard from Raoul?” She looks up from rocking the baby. “Oh, there you are, I did not hear the doorbell.”

“I opened the door before he could,” Gustave says. “I did not wish to waken Joshua. I shall be right back with the tea things.”

Christine’s eyes take in her former husband. She wishes she could say the absence of alcohol bettered him, but he is diminished, despite the elegant suit, newly trimmed hair and mustache. His spirit is dead – there is no life in him. Had they met on the street, she might not have been so harsh in her assessment, but in this house – so full of people…happy people, he fades. Was it always so…or have the years truly robbed him of his core?

“Please have a seat,” she says, “anywhere is fine, but we will be having tea, so I suggest the table or a chair with an end table…or perhaps the chaise.” The baby makes a small whimpering noise and Christine turns away to tend to him. “It is nothing, he just fell asleep and has yet to find his comfy spot.”

“Congratulations,” Raoul says. “My timing is truly atrocious.”

“We managed,” she laughs. “Would you like to see him? I do not recall you being particularly interested in infants, but you are welcome to look.”

“You know me too well…as does Gustave – my fathering skills do not exist and there has been nothing in my life recently to bring about a change in that area. However, I would definitely not wish to be rude to the young gentleman.”

“Some humor still in your heart.”

“God, I hope I have not gone completely dry of all my personality,” he says. “I must admit my view of life is rather grim and dull – which does color my behavior. I used to think drinking gave me a certain savoir faire – that people found me charming…amusing – being laughed at, however, is not the same as being laughed with.” He bends over the bassinette and smiles down on the baby. “May I say he looks like you and not be insulting?”

“While it would not be insulting, he actually seems to be favoring his father…much like his sister, Emilie. When I look at him, I see her all over again.”

“Me help.”

“Speaking of whom…Emilie, must you speak at the top of your lungs?”

“Goose not listen.”

“I hear you, I just choose not to pay attention to you.”

“So talk loud.”

“I am still not paying attention to you – however loud you talk.”

“Why?” She tugs on his jacket.

“Because you are too small to carry such a large tray – besides you were not invited to join us and are just being a nuisance.”

“What new sans? Me Ae-ma-lee san ren,” she says pointing to her chest. “Who new sans?”

“Nuisance, not new sans. You are a nuisance. A little trouble-maker.” Gustave pulls away from her. “Stop pulling on me or the entire business will be on the floor.”

“Come here, darling…let your brother put the tea things down,” Christine opens her arms to the little girl. “Meet Vicomte de Chagny.”

Emilie tucks herself under her mother’s arm, pressing against her legs – she looks at Raoul from beneath her lowered lashes. “Who you?”

“An old friend of your mother and Gustave.”

“Papa, too?”

“I know your papa, yes.”

“Not fwend?” The amber eyes, eerily familiar, study him. The small head a riot of black curls tilts waiting for a response.

Christine and Gustave watch Raoul – their faces in identical expressions – looking more like siblings than mother and son.

“No, we were not friends.”

“Why?”

“We were rivals and rivals can seldom be friends.”

“What rivals?”

Raoul looks at Christine, who shows no inclination of helping him out of this situation. “You find this amusing. Do you?” He laughs.

“I told you she favored her father,” Christine replies, giving her daughter a squeeze.

“What favored? What rivals?”

“Papa and Raoul both wanted to marry Maman, so they did not like each other.” Gustave picks up a croissant and breaks off a piece, popping it into his mouth.

“Maman like you?” she asks, pointing a finger at Raoul.

“For a time. Yes. I would say that your Maman liked me very much.”

Emilie turns to look at her mother. “No more?”

“I still like the vicomte, my sweet.”

Cocking her head, squinting at her mother, she asks, “Papa more?”

“Yes. Now I like Papa more.”

“Me, too.” The little girl nods emphatically.

“Nice to know that is settled,” Raoul says, the smile still on his lips. “I would not have it any other way.”

“Truly, Raoul?” Christine can hardly believe her ears. Has he changed so much in such a short time? All the bartering over the terms of first the divorce, then the annulment. Shipping her personal items piecemeal until she finally wrote him to just burn everything. Has he finally stopped pouting?

“The child should love her parents.”

“I see.” Silly of her to believe he could change at all. The boy in Perros was not bitter…or was he…she knew him so little…then and now. Still she senses no bitterness, perhaps these past years have brought him some comfort in other ways. That he stopped drinking and gambling – if what he told Erik was true – was quite an accomplishment and he should be proud.

“He still wants you to love him, Maman,” Gustave says. “He thinks coming here and telling us tales will somehow bring him back into your good graces.”

“Gustave!”

“Then why is he here?” Gustave turns to Raoul, tossing the croissant back on the plate, and says, “Why _are_ you here.”

“I was invited.”

“No, not here in our house…here in New York. Stop playing your silly word games,” Gustave growls. “Why did you come back to New York?”

Before he has a chance to answer, Helen rushes into the conservatory, eyes lowered, wiping her hands on the pristine apron she dons when guests are present. “Emilie – are you bothering your mother?” she asks, taking the little girl by the hand. “I am sorry Mrs. Christine – I was showing the new nurse the laundry.”

“Not a problem, Helen.” Bending over to give Emilie a hug, she pats her on the behind. “Go with Helen now.”

“Wanna stay,” she grumbles, pulling her hand away from the maid.

“I know you want to stay, but you will go with Helen – I am certain Henry and Margaret are missing you.”

Emilie pouts and stamps her foot.

“Temper will get you nowhere, my pet,” Christine says, her voice firm. “Now say good-bye to the vicomte.”

Side-eyeing her mother, Emilie smiles brightly at Raoul. “Bye, vee-con.”

“Au revoir, Emilie,” Raoul replies, offering the little girl a bow. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

Emilie breaks out in a fit of giggles as she runs out of the room, Helen on her heels.

Both Christine and Raoul laugh at the performance.

“I shudder to think of the poor man who falls under her spell when she is of an age to care about such things,” Christine says. “I shall have to keep a close eye on her…you, too, Gustave…as her big brother.”

“She is a tyrant and a terror that is for certain,” he says, smiling at his mother. “I should be more attracted to someone with less energy…and considerably less spoiled.”

“You are criticizing my parenting?” Christine smirks.

“Both of you give in to her too much.” Retrieving his croissant, he sits down at the table.

“And you are the great disciplinarian?”

“As you say, it is my job as her big brother.”

Taking notice of Raoul’s interest in their banter, Christine says, “Speaking of big brothers – how is Phillippe?”

“Arrogant as always. Very proper except when visiting the Ballet or Opera.”

“He is no longer…involved with Sorelli?”

“More or less – he should just marry her – neither of them is getting any younger and she does seem to make him happy,” Raoul says, finally taking a seat at the table next to the tea tray. “I much prefer speaking with him after he has visited with her.”

Christine clears her throat, indicating Gustave with her eyes, inviting Raoul to change the subject.

Ignoring her inference, he continues, “We Chagny men have always been charmed by the women we fancy – doing and saying things other men might not take up.”

Struggling to maintain a pleasant look on her face, Christine says, through clenched teeth, “I am certain most women would be honored to be courted by either of you. I am certain there are any number of ladies in your social circle who would enjoy your company and share your interests.”

“Maman, he is insulting you,” Gustave says. “He has not changed a bit – lording his nobility over you.”

“No, Gustave,” Christine says, shaking her head. “Raoul has always been the kindest of men – I must take some of the blame for the failure of our marriage.”

“Some indeed,” Raoul snorts, choosing one of the pastries for himself. “They are still warm, as you promised, Gustave. Your mother did learn something of the nobility during our marriage – this household appears to be very well run.”

“There, you see,” Gustave says. “Why do you not just leave now? You are not welcome in our home…at least by me.”

“Did you ever tell him how he came to be?” Raoul sneers.

“Yes, she did – both she and Papa did.”

Raoul pulls back at the fire the boy spits out at him. Turning to Christine, she nods, eyes narrowed, a faint smile on her lips. “His questions have been answered when asked.”

Adjusting his posture to face the boy head on, legs spread, hands pressed into his knees. “Did they tell you about how your father tried to kill me?”

There it is – the reason for the journey. He likely knew he could not blackmail Erik – her husband told her as much. But now trying to use the book as proof of Erik’s past – wanting to destroy him in the eyes of his son. “Raoul – this is not your place.”

“I told you he wanted to create problems – why did Papa want him to come here?”

“Your precious Pa Pa has grown soft – fallen under the spell of your oh, so pure Ma Man.”

“Stop it!” Gustave says, taking a step toward the man he once believed was his father. “There was no torture chamber – you made that up.”

“Actually _I_ did not…but it was certainly imaginative – were I that creative, I should have written my own book.”

Gustave brows furrow. “Then what?”

“Tell him, Lotte. Tell him about the noose.” Raoul removes his cravat and unbuttons his collar revealing the darkened skin left behind by the rope Erik put around his neck.

Gustave looks at Christine. “The scar is like Papa’s.”

“Not exactly – your father’s scar…scars came from a wire garrote – some from scourges, knives and other articles of torture.” Christine says.

Gustave only stares. She realizes her answer is not enough to still the fear she sees in his eyes. The young man is waning back to a little boy, his lips trembling ever so slightly.

“Tell him, Christine. Tell him how his precious father threatened to hang me unless you stayed with him in that hell hole of a basement where he festered and went mad.”

“You are a liar,” Gustave cries. “Maman, tell him he is a liar.”

Christine’s eyes plead with her son. Wringing her hands, she takes a deep breath before continuing. “Your father should be the one to tell you his story – of why he lived beneath the Palais Garnier and of the pain he suffered to make him so at odds with the world,” she says. “What I will tell you is what I know of the events leading to Raoul having the noose around his neck…and why he is alive and not dead.”

Gustave gives a curt nod. “That is fair.”

“Good,” she says. “Now return to your chair, take a deep breath – pour yourself some tea. In fact, pour each of us a cup.”

“Stalling, Lotte?”

“No, but taking some of the heat out of the tale would benefit all of us,” she replies. “I would also appreciate you not calling me Lotte.”

“It did not bother you when we were children together.”

“Obviously, now we are neither children nor together.”

Gustave prepares the tea and takes the seat across the table from Raoul. “Tell me.”

“There had been a number of incidents at the Opera Populaire surrounding your father wanting me to be Prima Donna.”

“Incidents like the murder of Joseph Buquet,” Raoul says, sipping his tea. “Explain that away.”

“Buquet’s death was an accident – he tripped on a rope when adjusting one of the flies, he landed awkwardly and broke his neck.”

“That is what he told you – others say they saw him hang Buquet from the flies.”

Gustave jumps up from his seat. “No! I do not believe that.”

“Buquet was already dead.”

“That is not what the crew and cast said,” Raoul argues.

“No one saw Erik hang him.”

“Who told you this folderol?”

“Erik…and Madame Giry…she is the one who saw Buquet fall,” Christine says. “They were always friends…of sorts. She left that out of the story she told you. Erik gave her money – she picked up the _salary_ the managers left for him. Delivered his letters, helped with his household chores – she and Meg.”

“I do not understand, Maman – what are you saying – someone died one way and Papa pretended he killed him? Why?”

“To frighten the managers into making me Prima Donna.”

“You are lying,” Raoul pounds his hand on the table. “Why did you not say anything?”

“I did not know until later – the night I left you…returned to Erik…we spoke of all these things. I had to know if killed Buquet. Piangi, as we learned later that night, was simply incapacitated so Erik could sing with me.”

“But what about Raoul?” Gustave asks. “What about the noose around his neck – was Papa going to kill him?”

“Raoul arranged for the police to capture…kill Erik. He was expected to be in Box 5, but performed with me instead. I agreed, under duress…” She glares at Raoul. “…to help with his capture – whatever it took. When I discovered he was on the stage, I removed his mask.”

“He kidnapped you,” Raoul rises from his chair.

“Keep still,” Christine hisses. “I do not want to wake the baby.”

“Yes, another baby. His baby,” Raoul growls. “I almost died.”

“But you did not.”

“No, you kissed him – you were engaged to me and you kissed him.”

“To save you.”

“Twice – you kissed him twice – the first kiss would have done.” Raoul begins to cry. “The first kiss would have done – I had to watch you. I loved you. I risked my life to save you.”

“You arranged to have him killed,” she whispers. “I kissed him to save you. Then I kissed him again to save him.”

“You were not in love with him?”

“At that moment, I do not know what I felt. I loved him in so many ways…so many, many ways, but I left with you – he wanted me to leave with you because _he_ loved _me_. You never cared what I felt – even back at the very beginning when you came to my dressing room. I told you my father died and you never asked when he died, how he died, it was all about you and the red scarf and supper…going to supper.”

Joshua starts to whimper – Christine reaches into the cradle and picks up the baby, holding him up to her shoulder, bouncing him gently. “Shhhh, my little one.”

“That is not so. I was very concerned,” Raoul sputters. “I only wanted to take care of you.”

Christine shakes her head vigorously. “You just wanted what you wanted – part of that was Erik being dead.” Tears form in her eyes, resting the baby on her hip, she removes a handkerchief from her sleeve and wipes her eyes. “This is his son, just as Gustave is his son and he loves them both with his entire heart – except for what he keeps for me and Emilie and his friends and the people he employs.”

“Christine, I…” Raoul stands and takes a step forward, reaching out to her.

Repositioning the baby, cradling him in her arms, she turns her back on him, walking to the French doors leading to the garden.

“Christine…”

Gustave blocks his way. “Maybe you should go. You are not welcome here.”

Raoul’s eyes meet Gustave’s, but cannot hold his gaze.

“I will show you out.”


	16. An Unmasking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik and Gustave have a conversation - one that Erik has feared.

Erik turns off the engine of the automobile. Resting his head on the back of the leather seat, he glances over to the house. With the exception of a small Tiffany lamp left on for him in the conservatory, only night lights in the hall and stairways appear to be lit. The house is asleep. The night so still a vague hint of the music and revelry of Coney Island can be heard on the soft breezes coming from the bay.

In an unusual way, he is reminded of his home on the lake beneath the Palais Garnier – the darkness, the lapping of water against the bulwarks, and an almost impenetrable silence…broken only when the opera with full orchestra was presented. So similar, but so incredibly different.

The rehearsal was exhausting, despite both Meg and Maizie being prepared and open for any and all suggestions. Rather than feeling threatened by her alternate, Meg seemed relieved she did not have to carry the entire load of being a “star.” For her part, Maizie could not have been better, despite the short notice.

Nevertheless, he is concerned about the opening. Thankfully, Nadir and Adele are here with him. Adele was always capable, but Nadir’s presence gives her a break from having to provide all the discipline…their love softens her personality so whatever haunted her, her commands and instructions are no longer instructed by that bitterness. The daroga’s calm and sense of self radiates to everyone around him. Loathe to say, even him.

All in all, a good, if long day at Phantasma.

The heavy workload allowed him to push aside any qualms he had about not being home when Raoul visited. He wanted Christine to know he was no longer jealous – he was even willing to play host to Raoul for as long as he wished to stay. Truth be told, he felt a tinge of an emotion new and untried…as least as far as the vicomte was concerned...pity. Christine would call it compassion. Perhaps – feeling as another feels. Maybe.

Looking at his home, filled with more people than he ever imagined cohabiting with – a beautiful wife, three children, who by anyone’s measure were to be admired…particularly his firstborn – the child who he would surrender everything for, he smiles. Another expression finding its way to his face more often than not. The little ones would know him as Papa – having no knowledge of any other father or life beyond what he and Christine provide for them.

Gustave will always be a reminder of the past and he will always largely judge himself based on the boy’s opinion of him. He took a risk by absenting himself today. The rush of adrenalin he feels at the thought, creates a bit of nausea – beads of perspiration on his forehead, advising him the fear he put aside for the day is still present…simmering, ready to engulf him in regret at trusting the man who likely still wants him dead. Was he too arrogant yesterday?

With a weary sigh, he opens the car door and makes his way to the house. The movement of a shadow in the sun room confirms his suspicion that he will soon find out if his apprehension is warranted.

“I saw your shadow, son,” he says, closing the glass-paned door behind him. Tossing his keys in the carved wooden bowl left on the small table just inside the door for that purpose, he removes his mask, placing it on top of the keys. He leaves the wig in place – opening himself up, but still desiring some protection. Even now, he feels too vulnerable when his deformity is completely exposed to anyone besides Christine.

“You always know when I am close by or watching you…like today when you were driving away,” Gustave says. “I was not trying to hide.”

“I did not think you were. As a matter of fact, I expected you to be waiting for me,” Erik says. “Your mother?”

“Sleeping. The wet nurse has Joshua for the night. Once Raoul left, she played a good deal with Emilie and the twins…and the baby, but after a light dinner, went directly to bed,” he says, adding with a smile, “I checked a short while ago and she was singing one of her dream songs.”

Erik smiles at the thought of his angel composing in her sleep. Many a night was spent listening to some melody he would attempt to identify – generally without success – when he was unable to sleep himself. “I suspect the meeting with Raoul was a bit much so soon after giving birth, but she insisted.”

“Yes, one does not argue with Maman when she insists upon something – she does it so seldom.” Gustave turns on another lamp – the sister to the Tiffany already illuminating a corner of the room. Two ceramic mugs sit on the small table the family uses for tea or light meals, along with a kettle, and plate of cheese, salami and a baguette cut into slices.

“Cocoa?”

“I thought you might be hungry – I know you do not eat when working – even if everyone else demands a dinner break.”

“Well, you made excellent choices. The Genoa is my favorite with the Provolone,” Erik says, making a small sandwich, adding a dab of mustard from the pot sitting on the tray. “I might have thought root beer, however, for the beverage.”

“Maman says I drink too much of it,” he says. “Cocoa is better before bed.”

“I agree – about the sausage, though, I am not so sure,” Erik says, taking a seat at the table across from his son.

“How was the rehearsal?”

“It went surprising well. I am quite relieved to be honest,” he says, pouring the hot chocolate into the mugs, pushing one over to Gustave. “So much upheaval in such a short time – Joshua’s birth being the best of the lot, but stressful nonetheless, particularly for your mother. It seems our lives will always have some sort of excitement going on.”

“Raoul’s visit was one of the more unpleasant events,” Gustave says, making his own sandwich, adding a few pickles to his plate from another jar that matching the mustard pot. “Do you want a pickle?”

“No, I think my digestive tract will be challenged enough by the salami.”

“I am sorry.” Gustave blushes. “I was not thinking of the hour.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for – this is my favorite snack…any time of the day, and very considerate of you. Over the years, due to my own lack of care for this body, I have allowed certain areas to become defective – you could be feeding me white bread and jam and I would still have heartburn. This is a far more pleasurable reason to deal with that inconvenience. I will have some apple cider vinegar before I retire – that will help.”

Gustave lips twist into a small grimace before tearing into his sandwich and pickles with gusto.

“So the visit today was unpleasant?”

“ _He_ is unpleasant.”

“I am sorry to hear that things did not go well. When I extended the invitation it was in the hope some sort of peace could be made.”

“You know very well he had no intention of making peace, Papa,” Gustave scoffs, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin.

“No, I suppose I did not, but your mother did.”

“What did you talk about…when you met with him the other night?”

“The past – the godforsaken past,” Erik says, tossing his own napkin on the table. “Somehow memories rise up just when you believe you have finally rid yourself of old, painful events.”

“He told me you tried to kill him,” Gustave says without missing a beat. “He showed me the mark on his neck from a noose. Said you were going to hang him.”

So here it is. The adrenalin rushes again, the spicy meat roils in his stomach adding to the discomfort the hormone creates. He should have known better than to eat, but the boy went to so much trouble...and he was hungry. The days of going without food were long past – hunger was a better time keeper for him than any clock now – Christine trained him well. The milk will help calm the acid – grateful now for the odd choice of drink. Taking a few slow sips, he attempts to compose his brain while he quiets his digestion.

“Did he now?” Erik finally manages to say, gratefully releasing a slight belch, even as he tries to disguise it behind a clenched fist. How fortunate to be Joshua in these moments, where a sound burp is greeted with congratulations and applause as if he just finished singing _vesti le giubba._ What a blessed child he is to have such a mother…all of them…even the twins, in their short tenancy with Christine acting as their mother, have blossomed under her care. He was, of course, the greatest beneficiary.

Strange how in the past there was very little that could upset his state of mind. The years of blocking any emotion other than rage – which ultimately disappeared as well. Passion of any sort lost its place in his persona – every human feeling frozen with the exception of his friendship of sorts with Adele and Meg, but that came much later. Christine, of course, changed all of that, so every blocked sensation from decades past came to life again with full force.

His hatred of Raoul de Chagny surpassed even that which he felt for his mother or Javert the gypsy. The two people he could honestly say engineered the direction his life would take – music, architecture and despising or simply disregarding most every human being he would come to meet.

A promise to the Persian changed all that, until the fool of a man-child entered his life – threatening the only thing in his sordid existence that made it worth living – his love for Christine.

And now his relationship with his son was on the line. Much as he would like to blame Raoul – it was his life requiring explanation – the vicomte only forced the issue by his presence.

“Maman said you did it because he tried to have you killed…by the police.”

Ah, so she came to his rescue. What had he done in this life or any other to be gifted the presence of this woman in his life? “That is true.”

“Why would the police be willing to arrest or kill you if you did nothing wrong.”

“They believed I killed a man named Joseph Buquet.”

“That is what Maman said, too,” Gustave says, his eyes fixed on Erik’s “Did you?”

He is looking into my soul – he is my soul. Thankfully, I can tell him the truth about that night, however ugly part of the truth might be. There is no other choice. He will never forgive me if I lie.

“No. I might have, though, at some point…he certainly deserved it – an evil man – disturbing the ballet girls…including your mother…especially your mother. Fate stepped in and he had an accident…fell and broke his neck. Conveniently, he was in the flies and fell from one level to another. I put the noose around his neck and everyone thought I murdered him.”

Gustave frowns. “Why did you let people think that?”

“Your father was a despicable creature – if people did not love me, then they must fear me. I preferred controlling the fear. No longer would my face terrify…only my trickery and misdirection – mostly harmless behavior – causing a scrim to fall, throwing my voice to frighten some ballerinas gossiping back stage,” Erik says, maintaining contact with the hazel eyes…a combination of his and his mother’s – soft, but with enough of the amber to challenge anyone who thought him weak.

“You scared me the first time I met you. I never knew anyone like you – I wanted to know you, but you frightened me. Maman seemed scared, too…and Pere…Raoul hated you. He did not even have to say anything. I never saw him so upset as when he found out you were here.”

“Well, now you know why,” Erik says “It was perfectly natural for him to be frightened of me.” The conversation is going much easier than Erik expected it might. Gustave was distancing himself from the horror, which he supposed was natural. How long would that continue? How far would the boy want to delve into his father’s past?

“Why did you let him live?”

Erik cannot help but laugh – did he really have such a dislike for the man? “Would you have had let him die? Taking a life is far more serious than giving someone a good thrashing.”

“He was not good to Maman…or me, but mainly her. I wish you had stayed together.”

“I believe we would all agree to that – but, we have only the present and must make do with the goodness we have now.” Erik reaches across the table to squeeze Gustave’s hand. “No thrashing and certainly no killing.”

“Papa?” Gustave lowers his eyes, toying with the remnants of his sandwich, pushing uneaten crusts of bread around the plate with a forefinger.

“Yes.” The dread returns – Christine questions him in this way – her interrogation appearing to be over, but there is always one more question – the one so difficult to answer because that question is the one where his response could drive her away.

“Did you ever kill anybody?”

So here it is – the moment he has dreaded from the moment Christine agreed she and the boy would be part of his life. The overly theatrical reveal of his face did not cause the boy to run – but Gustave has always been wise in knowing appearance is not the measure of a man. Erik keeps his focus on his son, even though Gustave continues to avoid his gaze. Clearing his throat, postponing the inevitable for a fraction of a second longer, he whispers, “Yes.”

“Did you mean to?” Gustave says, now looking at him, pleading with those ever-changing eyes, he continues in a rush, “I know that sometimes people kill other people, but they do not mean to – or they are in the army – or…”

“Yes.” Erik says. The word blunt and final, interrupting Gustave’s seeming attempt to excuse him, to not have to deal with the reality of having a father who took the lives of others. They are in in the sewer now. The place where Erik has lived so much of his life, in his mind if not in reality, except for those years beneath the Palais Garnier.

“More than one person?” Gustave asks, flinching even before Erik voices an answer.

“Mm hmm.” Erik raises his hand to stop the questioning. “Please do not ask how many.”

“Do you know?”

Erik shakes his head, taking his turn to look down and away.

“Why did you kill?”

Why? How does one answer such a question? Power comes to mind. Powerless for so long, to be able to overcome another human being was a strange thrill. For a time…for a very short time. Each successive assassination deadened him even further – no longer crimes of vindication – only a cold heart and a good eye. The idea sickens him now – bile roils in his stomach rising to his throat. He springs to his feet, coughing, clearing his chest. Reaching to the table behind him for a napkin, he holds the cloth to his mouth.

“Papa, are you all right,” Gustave rises to follow him, pressing a hand against his father’s back.

Erik shakes his head, moving away from the comforting touch, to the French doors. Opening them, he walks into the garden and retches into the tilled soil surrounding the rose bushes. As he wipes his brow with the napkin, he kicks the loose dirt over the vomitus. Breathing deeply of the night air, he calms his body and his mind before returning to the conservatory, closing the doors, but continuing to look out at the garden.

Gustave stands watching, making no attempt to touch or speak until Erik returns to the room. Allowing his father distance, he takes his seat at the table once again. “Were they people who hurt you?”

“The first time.”

“Who?”

“His name was Javert…”

His first murder. No, execution for crimes committed, but he killed him nonetheless. There is no way he can imagine this callow boy seated across from him thrusting a dagger into another human being. He was never callow or a boy – at least not after being an object of ridicule at the fairs and then the receptacle of Javert’s base desires. If he were to begin praying in earnest, it would be to protect this child seated across from him ever being put in such a position.

“How old were you?”

“Thirteen – your age.” Erik turns to look at his son. “I was ten when I left my mother’s house. He captured me. I was a prisoner for three years – on display, earning my keep by terrorizing people with my face, then charming them with my voice. Ironically, Javert gave me my first violin.” 

“That was not murder,” Gustave exclaims.

“No. It was not.” Erik paces the room. “Were that the only time.”

“The thuggees?”

“Yes – they gave me a weapon and taught me how to use it.”

“You talked about them…with mother and me.”

“Yes, I hoped the story would be the end of this sort of conversation, but you are my inquisitive son...”

“I am happy to be your son.”

“Even knowing what I have just told you?”

The love reflected in Gustave’s eyes quite frankly amazes him. Would he be so accepting? Tolerance for the flaws in others was foreign to him. If his physical appearance was distorted, then everything else within his sphere must be perfect. The face could be covered and the rest of the rot hidden as well – nothing but the finest. If he could not sleep because of the images visiting him in his dreams, he would learn to live without sleep – his music would give him the sustenance he needed to survive and if he died – what did it matter?

But was that still true? Life, as he lived it now, was not perfect – although he could still feel the irritation rising when something was amiss or out of place, but life itself was important to him now…mere survival and a blasé acceptance of possible death untenable.

When he first told Christine, he expected her to shun him. What was it within these two human beings to be so forgiving of him when, once he became truly conscious of who he was, he could not forgive himself? The vicomte was not far from the truth when he labeled him a monster.

“What happened after you left India?” Gustave relaxes into his chair, pulling his feet onto the chair, hugging his knees to his chest.

“I traveled through the Asias – China, Japan, Russia. Even at my young age, I became quite renowned for my music and magical skills.” No need to speak of assassinations. Would Gustave even know of such things or those who would commit murder for a price? Those years hardened his heart, but expanded his knowledge of the healing arts as well – herbs, acupuncture, homeopathy. An odd balance of good and evil.

“Is that when you met Nadir?”

Erik nods, returning to his seat at the table. “The Shah of Persia sent him to find me – which he did – in Russia. He invited me to Persia to be an entertainer in the court – although I was able to practice the art of my own father – I became the Shah’s architect – I was still an entertainer.”

“How does that lead to killing people?”

“A most excellent question,” Erik says, resisting the wry smile he feels forming, observing the solemn look on Gustave’s face. “It might have been the most enjoyable experience of my life – performing, creating a beautiful building, but The Shah and Khanum, his sister, had a bizarre sense of what entertainment was – much like the Romans and the gladiators fighting with lions. The death of innocents was found to be amusing. The more inventive the better.”

His eyes drift away from his son toward the past. How can he be here talking so calmly about those abhorrent acts? How can his son being listening with rapt attention, no sense of judgment in his mien – curious, but not alarmed in any way.

“Why did you leave?”

“The real question is why did I stay so long,” Erik says, “I was essentially a slave myself – when living as a vagabond, I had my freedom. Not so in Persia. Besides the palace was finished and I knew too much – the Shah was going to execute me.”

Gustave’s eyes widen, leaning forward in his chair. “How did you escape?”

Erik wonders again at the reaction – is he making this such an exciting tale of adventure Gustave has lost a sense of what he was being told? There was a time when he could hypnotize using only his voice – the first time he brought Christine down to his home beneath the opera house, it was through the use of this skill. This was not what he wanted for himself or his son. Not now. This was too important.

Using the most serious tone he can muster, speaking flatly, not using his voice, something unnatural to him after so many years of play acting, he says, “Nadir risked his own life and position to arrange my escape. He blamed himself for bringing me to Persia in the first place. I was not a good man when we met, but he hated what I became. There was every possibility he might die if found to be responsible. I promised him I would only kill if in self-defense – and I have held to that.” Blunt truth – no romantic shadings.

Gustave frowns. “He found us just in time to save my life, too,” his voice just above a whisper, his eyes fill with tears. “Oh, Papa, we are so lucky to know him.”

“He is our very best friend.”

Gustave studies his father’s face. “Can I ask one more question?”

Erik opens his hands, “I am yours, my son.”

“Are you sorry?”

Erik raises an eyebrow. “That they are dead?”

“No – are you sorry you killed them?” The words come out rushed, demanding.

An unexpected question. Would the wrong answer destroy something else? Even Christine, with all her goodness and mercy never asked this question of him. Did she assume he was? For her own sake? Taking it for granted he sought absolution from God, as she likely does when believing she has done something wrong. Was he sorry? In truth he never asked the question of himself.

There was one death he grieved over – one that touched his hardened heart as nothing ever had before and likely changed his perceptions about life and death and the value of both.

“One. One death by my hand can I truly say I feel sorrow for,” Erik says. “Nadir’s son, Reza, suffered from an illness so severe his death was a blessing.”

“Nadir had a son?”

Erik nods. “A sweet boy – his mother died when he was born. He was always sickly, but with incredible spirit. For some reason he loved me – this was at a point of time when I was perhaps even more unlovable than when I met your mother. Still Reza cared.”

“What happened?”

“His body simply kept fading – the life force dwindling by the day…and he was in pain…always in pain, though he never complained.”

“Did Nadir ask you to help him?”

“To heal him, yes. Which I could not do beyond helping relieve the pain for a while,” Erik says, his eyes moist remembering the frail child with bright emerald eyes and a joyful laugh for every foolish trick Erik could contrive to ease his suffering. “So I asked permission to help Reza die – euthanasia, it is called – mercy killing.”

“That must have been awful,” Gustave says, reaching across the table as his father did earlier, to squeeze the long thin fingers – magical fingers that could create and heal, and, as he learned, destroy.

Returning the pressure of Gustave’s hand on his before he pulls away to brush the moisture from his eyes, he says, “As for the others, I dream of them – they haunt me.”

“I hear you sometimes, walking the halls.”

“”I am sorry for that – I leave my bed to allow your mother to sleep, and now I find out I am disturbing you.”

Gustave shrugs. “I just worry. I would join you, but I sense you need to be alone.”

“You are your mother’s son in that.”

“I am not sure _you_ believe you are sorry, Papa,” Gustave says as he gets up to stand behind his father. Placing his hands on Erik’s shoulders, he leans over, kissing his father’s cheek before pressing his face against the deformity, “but I do. I know you are.”

Erik presses his hand against Gustave’s head, allowing his tears to fall. He hopes his son will still be as consoling once he absorbs and processes what he learned tonight. For the moment, however, he accepts the comfort. “Thank you for believing in me. I do know I wish my life had been different – that those acts never happened.”

A thought strikes him unbidden – what changes might be wrought within him after tonight? Feeling pity for the vicomte, grief for the deaths of strangers. Could he really be the man he wife and son believe him to be?

“Come, let us clear these dishes…Helen and, what is your friend’s name?” He says, teasing, getting to his feet, putting the mugs and plates on the silver serving tray.

“Julia,” Gustave says, blushing, joining in.

“Ah, yes, Julia… Helen and _Julia_ should not be expected to clean up after our special indulgences.”

Gustave nods in agreement. “Are you feeling better?”

“Surprisingly, yes – ridding oneself of poisons of any sort is a good thing.” Looking out to the garden, he continues, “In the morning, I must address the rose bush I fouled. I am not sure what the gardener would think finding the remnants of my sickness disturbing his hard work.”

Gustave manages a giggle. “I love you, Papa, you are so funny.”

“I am pleased you think so, although some might think you strange for your taste,” Erik says. “We can talk more about this when and if you wish, but, for now, I think I may actually sleep tonight. Let us get on with our chores, shall we?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gustave?”

“Yes?”

“I love you, too.”

“I know.”


	17. My One and Only Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Christine's Chapter.

Gustave pushes through the conservatory, shooing Henry and Margaret to precede him. “Straight to your room.”

Julia moves past him to take the hands of the little boy and girl. Each of them is laughing and jumping up and down, doing some of the dance steps they remember from the evening show they just witnessed at Phantasma.

“Did you see the juggler?” Henry asks, looking up at the pretty young blonde girl, her hair in a long plait hanging down her back tied with a blue ribbon. “How did he do that? I want to learn to do that.” Imitating the movements of Dr. Gangle tossing balls or rings or…the most dangerous…axes into the air, his freckled face is bright with excitement, giggling at his play-acting.

“I liked the pretty ladies dancing with the spangles on their dresses?” Margaret says, holding out the skirt of her new pink dress, sashaying as best she can despite her bowed legs, while trying to keep up with her twin and Julia.

Each of the children are dressed in brand new clothing, tailored to their small bodies, but fashioned for their age. What clothing of Gustave’s the fit Henry were those of a toddler – the same with Margaret. The frippery of a three-year old baby, did not fit with Margaret’s greater maturity, even if she was only seven. If someone in the household seemed distressed, Margaret was always there to help or cheer with her sweet smile and gentle touch.

Julia benefited from the shopping as did her sister Helen. Although Christine felt it better she not go shopping so soon after Joshua’s birth, she gave Helen a letter of credit to a local Brooklyn dressmaker she engages to fashion her own wardrobe. Each would be provided with two outfits. One for special occasions, such as tonight – the other for everyday wear. Additional clothing would be added when more time had passed and everyone’s needs were better assessed.

Everyone agreed to wait until Christine could attend the show comfortably, so they did not see the opening, but waited until the show and Joshua settled in. Two weeks provided enough time to provide a buffer for everyone’s nerves – allowing the trauma of the fire, Raoul’s visit and the baby’s early birth to fade into the background somewhat.

“You do not have to go with them,” Gustave calls after her.

“Yes, I do,” she replies, showing him a dimpled grin. “They need help getting ready for bed, and I want to be certain they have calmed down enough to go to sleep.”

Gustave nods, watching the pretty blonde girl, looking particularly lovely in the cornflower blue dress trimmed with white lace she chose for her special occasion dress. “I shall see you in the kitchen then…later?”

“Yes…later,” she replies, increasing her pace to a trot in order to keep up with the excited seven-year-olds.

The elder son steps back, holding the door for his mother and father.

“I am happy we asked Martin to bring us to the back of the house. When he stopped in front and I got out I realized how many stairs there are at the front entry.” Erik says, a guiding hand placed on Christine’s back.

“It has been a long time since you traveled through the cellars under the Palais Garnier – these steps hardly compare, as I recall…and my journeys to and from my dressing room to your home only took place for a few months,” Christine laughs. “You were there for years.”

“I could be considered a madman for that reason alone,” he replies. “It has been thirteen years, after all, and I am not getting any younger.”

“In spirit you are,” she argues. “Your heart is young – and I can see the happiness on your face with the show’s success. Everyone has settled in quite nicely, I would say.”

“It is a good show – is it not?”

“It is.”

“The only thing missing was my prima donna,” he says, removing a lace shawl from her shoulders.

“Independence Day is a perfect time, I think, to return for a few performances.”

“Gustave, feel free to wait for your friend in the kitchen,” Erik says. “The sight of your fidgeting is making me nervous.”

“Are you sure, Papa?” The boy says, barely restraining himself from running from the sun room away from his parents.

“Go,” Christine says. “But…”

Gustave stops in his tracks. “Yes, Maman?”

“Be a gentleman.” She says with a quirked eyebrow and a nod suggesting a severe tongue-lashing if she discovers he has gone beyond the limits thirteen-year-old boys are expected to maintain with thirteen-year-old girls.

“Yes, Maman,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes. “No hugging or kissing. I may hold her hand if she allows it. But, what if…”

“What if nothing, son,” Erik joins in the conversation. “Have some tea or root beer and enjoy your time together – talking or playing cards…better still – teach her to play chess.”

“Not chess,” Christine says. A memory of an earlier time, when she visited Erik at his home comes to mind. They would often sit and read together, but one night Erik suggested he teach her chess. Soon it became one of their favorite pastimes – when not singing.

Perhaps it was the concentration and quiet, the intimacy of sitting opposite him plotting the movement of the exquisitely carved pieces of ebony and boxwood – a set he procured when living in India. Then he would lift a knight or a rook between a bent fore and middle finger, setting the piece strategically or capturing one of her pieces. A calm settled over him, different from any other time they spent together. There would be an occasional twitch of a muscle in his visible cheek she recognized as a signal he was prepared to ravage her meagre attempts to combat his superior ability at the game. Even though she had managed to check mate him once since the games began. His surprise was only surpassed by his determination to suggest he allowed her the victory. _“One cannot always win – it detracts from the enjoyment of the game for the opponent.”_

On rare occasions, during play, Erik’s fingers would brush hers and she was unnerved at the sensation rising from deep within. If he felt the same energy, he hid it well. There were advantages to always wearing a mask, even if only half his face was covered.

Weeks had passed since she took his mask from his face. Was his face so really awful? Her recollection was blurred by being in the presence of the real man and made his face less relevant. He was simply Erik now. Raoul suggested if the mal-formed face she described to him was that of someone who was plain, without a marred face, she would not hesitate one moment in casting her fate with him. Was she so shallow? Playing chess or reading books, even taking lessons from him in the absolute privacy of the fifth cellar was decidedly different than walking in the Bois during daylight hours.

At the time, were Pappa still alive, he would have scolded her had he known of those thoughts – over the years, they met so many people – mostly everyday normal folk – few beautiful, few truly ugly. Working the fairs introduced her to many of the same _freaks_ who worked here at Phantasma. People she loved or disliked for who they were, not how they looked.

Perhaps that is what made it so easy to ultimately accept Erik’s face. What frightened her was his rage, although even those moments were rare, the mention of Raoul being the only time when his control faltered. Those times were few – Christine found Raoul was not much on her mind when she was with Erik.

His habit of humming when they played – the combination of his voice and the odd touching, stirred her in a way she never experienced with Raoul. Moments like those formed the attraction to her husband in those early days she still experiences when he touches her now. Tenderness with a wild, unbridled force pulsing beneath the surface. She shivers now at the thought of his hands touching her.

Erik tips his head, questioning the objection. “You love chess. We have some of our most enjoyable evenings when we play…”

Christine clears her throat, eyebrows rise as she glares at him, a pinched smile on her lips.

“Oh, right. Chess does take a…”

Christine nods, edging him to a satisfactory shift from his praise of the game that, for them, tends to never end at the board, but in bed.

“…lot of concentration…and I do think cards…as your mother suggests…would be more entertaining – particularly since it is getting late and chess games can go on for hours at a time.” He finishes in a rush.

Gustave rocks on his feet. “Yes, Papa. Yes, Maman. Cards. We shall play rummy. Can I go now?”

“Go.” His parent say in unison.

Not taking the chance they might say something else, Gustave takes off in a run down the long hallway to the back of the house where the kitchen and the servants had their rooms.

“You only just managed to save that – they are only thirteen years old.”

“Do you really think they would find chess romantic?”

“You know as well as I do how quickly Gustave is…maturing. I suspect he finds everything romantic. Do not think I am not aware of the books you leave for him to find.”

“They are meant to educate him on the physicality of his body and the changes he is going through.”

“And to give him other things to focus on to relieve his desires.”

“At least he does his own laundry,” Erik chuckles. “Even his bedclothes, I have noticed.”

Christine cannot help but giggle recalling the sight of the boy carrying a load of sheets to the laundry. “If he only knew how many times I have done the same thing with our bedding.”

“Better he does not,” Erik says, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, nuzzling her neck. “As you say, they are only thirteen…god, how are we going to keep him chaste…or at least self-contained until he is of an age where if something untoward does happen, he can be responsible.”

“Speaking of the responsibilities of sexual intercourse, I am going to check on the baby and Emilie and will meet you upstairs,” Christine says to Erik, kissing him lightly on the lips, as they walk to the staircase.

“Interesting way to refer to our children…not a product of our love…or gifts from the heavens to bless our marital state?” he teases. “Responsibilities of sexual intercourse, my beautiful, romantic wife calls our children.”

“Only when I would rather go upstairs to bed instead of seeing to them – is that terrible of me,” she says. “Were I not to check on them, I should not be able to sleep from my own sense of guilt – plus the fact that I do love them so, but the help, such as we have, would certainly comment on it among themselves.”

“Is that so? Did you learn that at the Chagnys – along with the task of running a large household?” He stops at the base of the stairway that curves against the wall to the second floor landing. “You are the perfect mother in my eyes. I wonder what they might say about my own mother, whose face I rarely saw because she could not bear to see mine.”

“Understanding the chatter and gossip of the servants was the first thing I learned – they run the household – only allowing the mistress the belief she is in charge.”

“So I have noticed,” he laughs, kissing her cheek. “One can only wonder what they think of me. However, I shall not let it haunt my dreams – they are active enough as it is.”

“Why not have a brandy to relax yourself?”

“Is it so obvious?”

“To me, it is, you are as wound up as the children – I do believe you were more nervous tonight than at the opening,” she laughs. “Go. I will not be long.”

Bending down for another kiss, he pulls her toward him. “Promise?”

Lingering in his embrace, she says, “Promise.” Watching as he trudges up the stairs, gripping the handrail to assist his assent. Despite her giving birth, her husband has been put to the test these past few weeks. The success of tonight’s family visit is a relief for all of them. Although he hides it, the need for hers and Gustave’s acclimation is strong, having embraced his role as head of the family wholeheartedly. 

More so since his conversation with Gustave. He was both older and younger at one and the same time. The issue of his past and how he would tell Gustave no longer an issue…relieved one burden, but created another. So far, Gustave has indicated no alteration in his feelings for his father.

Erik expressed his fear the boy may have heard his confession as an adventure story – if, for no other reason than to protect himself. For her part, she understands the need for Gustave to digest this slowly. Just as Erik became physically ill during his recollections, his son may need to act out some of his feelings.

This is the new burden her husband is dealing with – and will likely consume much of his energy. It was so after their first conversation – but she was in love with him. She also saw the changes in him. Perhaps that made it harder. Gustave has only known him through love – not having experienced the darker side of his father, except through his words…and those of the man who knew as father for the first ten years of his life.

Nadir and Adele are testimony to the man Gustave knows his father to be, but Christine senses there are times when Gustave would like to know more from people other than his parents, especially now with the new information Erik has provided.

How alike they are, but how different. What might Erik have been had his mother been kinder to him?

Speaking of mothering, she treads the carpeted hall to the birthing room, where the wet nurse now resides…at least part-time. The arrangement gives the woman the opportunity to spend more time at her own home. However, because of the schedule at Phantasma, Mrs. Marshall must be available mostly at night, with Christine taking care of the baby during the day.

Knocking softly on the door, she pokes her head in. “Is all well?”

“Yes, Mrs. Christine,” the woman says, putting down her knitting – at the moment just a few rows of yellow yarn. Similar in age and physical appearance to Christine, this is only her second situation as a wet nurse, so is more amenable to the schedule Christine offered her. A new mother herself, being able to bring her baby with her was another advantage not always available to wet nurses.

“He just nodded off. Quite a good eater, he is. Going to be a big boy, I would say, if your husband and son are any measure.”

Christine enters the room and smiles down at the baby lying in the cradle, a bubble of milk on his rosy lips. Bending down to give him a kiss. “And how is your little one?” she asks, moving softly to the crib set up next to Joshua’s cradle to peek at the little girl, nine months older than her roommate.

“You are most kind to allow me to bring her.”

“The situation is working for all of us,” Christine says. “Mr. Erik wants to be certain you see the new show at Phantasma with your husband. Please let us know when you want to attend. Also, a day or two at the park for the older children.”

“Thank you, missus, I will let you know.”

“Good,” Christine says as she turns to leave. “Get some sleep, while you can.”

“Yes, these little ones do have their own schedules. I am working on that.”

“Thank you.” Closing the door behind her, she continues to Helen’s room.

Repeating the quiet knock, she waits until Helen responds.

“Come in.”

“How is our little princess?” Christine smiles, entering the room, closing the door behind her.

“Sound asleep.” Helen gets up from her armchair and puts down the book she is reading on the end table next to her. Emilie is sleeping in a crib set up for her next to Helen’s bed.

“She was quite pouty when we all left.”

“When I devoted myself entirely to her, she settled down,” Helen smiles. “She is so bright, it is a pleasure to sit with her. She loves stories and follows along with the books when I read to her.”

“Gustave was much like that – still, I know she can be a handful – we spoil her terribly.”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Christine, she is a most charming child.”

“If you insist,” Christine laughs. “May I sit for a moment – there is something I would like to discuss with you.”

“Of course.” Helen indicates the armchair.

Christine shakes her head, looking around the room. “This is fine,” she says, pulling out the bench from Helen’s vanity.

“Is there something wrong?”

“Goodness, no,” Christine says. “I am hoping to make something right. We have put a lot of pressure on you and Julia with all the childcare.”

“They are a pleasure.”

“Yes, but you were not employed to keep house and run a nursery and day care.”

Helen folds her hands in her lap, waiting expectantly.

“The mister and I wanted to ask if you would like to be Head Housekeeper with Julia as your assistant… or, Nanny? We will be hiring a part-time cook. Even though we make do – I am not a very good chef and Mister Erik simply does not have the time, the household is growing too fast to handle all of it.”

“Nanny?”

“We will be bringing Miss Fleck into the household to school Henry and Margaret, but they will still have other needs, as will Emilie, especially when I return to performing,” Christine explains. “You seem to enjoy the children and we wanted you to make the choice.”

“Oh, Mrs. Christine, that is such an honor. I am not so skilled.”

“You are perfectly skilled,” Christine says, getting up. “Thank you for staying home tonight. We were hoping you and your parents would accompany us tomorrow night to see the show and meet Miss Fleck. She insisted on performing this one last weekend before retiring from the stage, so you will have the pleasure of seeing her perform as well.”

“Thank you. My mother and father will be so proud.”

“They have raised two wonderful daughters and has every reason to be so,” Christine says. “We will have a contract drawn up to cover your responsibilities and wages. You would not happen to have another sister who could be head housekeeper – the task might be a bit much for Julia.”

“No, Mrs. Christine.” Helen smiles as she shakes her head.

“Oh, well, that may have been too much to hope for,” she says. “I shall refrain from kissing my daughter, she is often restless and I would not wish to wake her. Good night.”

“Good night…and thank you.”

Standing for a moment in the hallway – the house dark except for the night lights. Breaking the stillness, soft laughter drifts from the kitchen area. How quickly her son, her only friend for such a long time, is growing up. And yet, he is still so young.

Her instincts tell her tonight she need not worry about his baser instincts. In that way, he is much like his father – he will suppress his passions…those passions, in any event. Even now, after their three…almost four years of marriage, Erik always waits for her consent and is often surprised she wishes to make love.

So many years when they were not together – she missed him terribly – not just the physical expression of their love – that one night. She missed his friendship. The quiet conversations. The boisterous conversations – both of them making jokes about members of the cast and crew. The most fun in their parodies of Carlotta and Piangi. Erik’s laugh, deep and as resonant as his singing voice. Two lonely souls who found each other, with neither of them know how to express their love. And how she loved her Angel of Music. Oh, Pappa, you did send him.

Deciding to let the children have their privacy, she returns to the stairway – her parental duties over for the day. Now for the best time of the day – being with her love…her heart…her soul.

“Did you have your brandy?”

“A sip,” Erik looks up at her – secure in the privacy of their rooms, his mask and wig are removed for the night. Jacket off, but still in his shirt and vest, he kneels on the floor, the makings of a music box spread around him. “All the children present and accounted for?”

“Yes,” she says, removing the pins from her hair, letting the waves of chestnut hair cascade over her shoulders. She walks to the vanity to put the clips in a china dish. Glancing at herself in the mirror, she runs her hands over the bodice of the silvery gray organza dress, worn during the earlier months of her carrying Joshua, and frowns. The signs of pregnancy are still visible, even though she wears a tighter corset than usual. She hopes her figure will return by the Fourth of July holiday.

“I left Gustave and Julia alone – I heard them laughing, so felt it safe to leave them to their card game or whatever they were enjoying. The babies are all asleep. Who would have ever thought all those years ago at the Opera House we would be living in a small mansion filled with children.”

Rising to his feet, he tucks his shirt into his pants, tugging his vest into place. “I thought I would start working on this for Joshua. Do you think he would like the monkey or perhaps a clown?” he asks, pointing to the options sitting next to one another at his feet.

“A monkey,” she says, watching him in the mirror as he crosses the room toward her. “When I came into the room, my mind returned to that last night at the Opera House, when I was leaving with Raoul. You look now just as you did then.”

“Do I?” He wraps his arms around her, from behind, swaying back and forth, kissing her neck, avoiding the reflection of his face in the mirror.

“You do. When I returned, you were sitting on the floor singing with the music box. _Masquerade, hide your face so the world will never find you,_ ” she sings softly, tilting her head to give him better access to her throat. “Then you got up and tucked in your shirt…just as you did now. You ducked your head – embarrassed to be found in a condition less than proper. Then you told me you loved me.” Bowing her head, she wipes away a tear, turning to nuzzle her face against his chest. “I wonder how I left you at all.”

“You found me attractive?”

“You were so human – so vulnerable.”

“I shall remember that when you are cross with me in the future – sit down on the floor and sing with monkey music boxes.” The gruffness in his voice and glistening wetness in his eyes belie the casual response.

“I am serious – you were…I do not know…pure.”

“Pure? Was I? An interesting choice of word – especially describing me,” he chuckles. “I felt so strange, as if I had been drained of all the hate and anger I ever felt,” he pulls her closer. “You were so beautiful – just as you are now – there are times when I cannot believe I am holding you – any more than you kissing me then.”

She makes a small moue, “I do not feel so beautiful – she pats her stomach.”

“You are concerned about your baby flesh again – I rather like it,” he runs long fingers over her belly. “Hmm, I see you wore the heavy corset tonight.”

Slapping his hand, she says, “Do not make fun of me and my flab.”

“That flab was cradle to my son and before that my daughter and before that my oldest, most special son – you are the best mother.” Releasing the hug, he begins to undo her dress. “Time to get ready for bed.”

“Only for sleep.”

Sliding the gown from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. “Are you concerned about how you look…because of the babies…”

“No. It is too soon – you know that,” she says, stepping from the dress. “Help rid me of this wretched undergarment.

“Gladly.” He makes fast work of the laces, gathering the corset along with the dress, to lay them on the bench at the foot of their bed. “You seemed so upset about how you look. I understand that – I would not wish you to think I would ever find you unappealing or unlovable,” he sputters. “I love your flab, as you call it.”

Christine laughs. “ _That_ is not what I said.” Free of the encumbrances of the whalebone, she sashays up to him, she takes his face in her hands and kisses him as she did all those years ago. “Why would I ever give up that joy?”

“Thank you – I was concerned for a moment there,” he says, caressing her shoulders. “Although if you continue to kiss me in that way, I must sleep in another room, so as not to cause you any distress.”

“Shhh.” After pressing a finger against his lips, she runs her hand over his chest, unbuttoning his vest and pushing it aside. Her next task is unfastening his trousers, enabling her to slip her fingers between his drawers and his warm flesh to stroke him.

“Christine, what are you doing – you just said…you cannot…”

“But you can, as we are both aware.”

“No, I would not wish you to simply tend to my desires. We shall wait until both of us…”

“I want to,” she says, accentuating her words with a gentle squeeze.

Sucking in his breath, he whispers, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, my love, I am sure,” she replies. “Now. Sing for me.”

The title of the chapter is the same as one of my favorite songs. I can’t provide a link, unfortunately. But check it out on You Tube – John Coltrane on Saxophone. A kind of jazzy, modern day Erik singing on of greatest love songs ever. https://youtu.be/cT1YTkl0-NY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who have read this phic – the third of my LND fixers. This is the final chapter for Times of Reckoning, but I do have plans for the next and hope to have it up next week (on schedule). Hope you will want to continue with the story of Erik and Christine - their family and friends.


	18. New Horizons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years after the end of Times of Reckoning, Erik discovers something lacking in his life. Christine helps him fill the empty space.   
> This chapter is actually the first chapter of my new story New Horizons, so is repeated there. I am hoping that those of you who liked this story - would be interested in following the new story - NEW HORIZONS. Thank you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter of my new story - New Horizons. Hope you will continue to follow the saga of Erik, Christine and their little family. Thank you.

Erik restrains himself from slamming the fallboard down on the grand piano. Through the skylights in the Eyrie, the gray sky portends a storm signifying the true end of summer. Phantasma has been closed for a few weeks and the crew is battening down the rides and outbuildings, doing repairs as they go along. The major upgrades they did three years earlier after the fire that took Dreamland, make the maintenance simpler and Nadir is happy to oversee things.

When they were designing new attractions, Erik was intimately involved with everything. Gustave actually came to love architecture as much as he did – convincing Erik, it was indeed hereditary. Many of the additions had his fingerprint – a youthful view Erik no longer had, if he ever did. The darker rides and automatons were Erik’s creations – the more playful, brightly colored adventures bore Gustave’s stamp. Somehow it all worked out and the venue, if not as large as the surviving Luna and Steeplechase parks, holds its own with the public.

Now, however, the park was pretty much a fait accompli and both of them wanted to design more than rides and carnival attractions. Even young Henry seemed to love the idea of creating new buildings, the midget, now ten years old, has a gift for drawing and a vivid imagination, so the three of them spend much of their time, when the boys are not in school, designing houses.

So far the war in Europe is not affecting them, nevertheless the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand sent rumbles throughout the United States. For his part, Erik never became very involved in politics, it seemed there was always some sort of war going on in Europe and he had little interest in places he had no plan of returning to.

Nadir is always tossing newspapers under his nose demanding he read this or that. Despite his efforts to indicate his lack of interest, such as tossing the rags, as he calls them, into the trash or simply sweeping them onto the floor, the daroga keeps insisting Erik keep apprised of what was happening in Europe. Money, he would say. Think about the money. Fiscally, they could not have been in better shape, so the constant harping fell on deaf ears.

This morning was different. Erik’s attention is drawn to an article in the paper he left sitting on the music desk of the piano. A photograph is removed from his wallet. A photograph that haunts him – a girl, perhaps three years old, bound by ropes, on display with the monkeys and lizards brought to the United States from the Philippines.

The photograph drew him to Luna to see for himself if this was a reality. He knew of the human zoos and abhorred the practice. It was one thing to give people work, enabling them to use their deformities to earn them a living – quite another to exploit people captured or bribed to live as animals. The memories the photo evokes are more than painful – they enrage him.

The Village of Little People at Dreamland was not quite at that level – at least the residents were treated as human beings, not animals. The fire brought a number of dwarfs and midgets to Phantasma. Some moved on to Luna, others left to find work in with other amusement operations – Erik gave work to as many as he could. In the case of Henry and Margaret, twins who only just arrived at Dreamland, having been abandoned at a nearby orphanage, they were adopted by Erik and Christine. Their parents nowhere to be found despite their efforts. The twins were legally adopted and found their place in the Saint-Rien household. At ten years, they filled the age gap between the sixteen-year-old Gustave or Goose, as he is called, and the kidlets – Emilie six and Joshua, now three.

The Filipino Zoo Girl disturbed him more than the others in the _zoo_ – most were adults and he suspected they were here because they had been recruited in some way – their treatment was loathsome, but her plight was all too reminiscent of what he suffered at the hands of the gypsies forty years ago. This baby did not understand wages or being on display as some sort of animal.

Sure enough, the visitors threw her peanuts to eat. Speaking to the management of the park got him nowhere. She was their property. She was being cared for. Why would they let any harm come to her, she made money for them?

The news in today’s paper heartened him – the Philippines passed a comprehensive anti-slavery law that prohibited taking their tribesmen for these kinds of exhibits and ending the practice permanently, which shut down all the human zoos in the United States. Erik knew well enough how these things worked - the Filipino government was actually implicit in this practice and in fact made money off of these zoos. Still it was over – all of the inhabitants of the “zoo” were to be returned to their homeland. The little girl gone with them.

And, so it was, neither the affairs of the world or Phantasma need of his attention. Free time – precious free time that has been lacking over these past few years. Time enough now to write his music – not the simple notes and rhythms the shows demand – but another opera, perhaps, even a new aria for Christine.

The destruction of the Dreamland Ballroom gave Erik another venue – not as large, but still popular and a place for Christine to perform with Rudolph – keeping the conductor and orchestra employed. Still, her voice was not being utilized as it should – he missed the soaring notes of her coloratura.

Did she?

His gaze returns to the piano. Lifting the fallboard again, he places his long fingers against the ebony and ivory keys and waits for those ten digits to grace the keyboard with speed and passion or with gentle strokes and intricate movements creating new melodies – expressions of his heart and soul – but nothing comes. His hands are frozen in space.

All his life he wished to be an ordinary man and now he was…successful, even admired, loving and beloved husband and father, friend to many, no known enemies, the pain of his youth and early years left in a past he seldom even dreams about anymore.

Tears flood his eyes to the point, he removes his mask to dry the thin, fine plastic he found to cover his face without the weight and chafing he experienced in the past. So much good. So much happiness – joy. What more could he want? Why did he feel such emptiness? Such pain?

Closing the fallboard again, he allows himself the sobs tugging at his heart and cries. “My music. Where is my music?”

"Where is your father?" Christine asks Gustave, entering the conservatory. With the exception of her hair, still hanging loosely over her shoulders, she is garbed for the day in a pale green day dress that enhances the color of her clear eyes. A smile curves her lips as she takes in the sight of her children. With the exception of Joshua, who is being tended to by Helen in the kitchen, the other four sit around the Sun room table, eating their breakfasts.

“Phantasma,” Emilie offers, determinedly cutting her French toast into neat squares. “He made breakfast.” Dressed in her favorite lavender voile dress, black curls tied into pony tails on either side of her head, she holds up a square to show her mother.

“Perfectly done, dear…as always.” If Gustave reflected the artistic and deliberative side of Erik, Emilie was miniature version of the man who allowed himself no margin of error – the perfectionist, even to the extent of precisely cut breakfast food. “No eggs?”

“Maman, you know eggs are in the batter,” her daughter says, tsking for good measure. Six years old going on forty. If Adele visited more often, she would suspect Emilie was taking life lessons from her Godmother. It was through Emilie Christine could see how Erik and Madame Giry were able to maintain a relationship over decades – they thought so much alike, even if the manner in which they carried out their ideas might be different.

“He made some for you, too, Mam Christine,” Margaret says, pointing to a plate with a domed cover. Her thick dark blonde hair, tinged with highlights of red is pulled back, tied with a satin ribbon at the back of her neck. Like Emilie, she chose a favorite dress – hers a pale yellow.

“That was quite thoughtful,” Christine answers, walking around the table to take her seat between Gustave and Henry. “This looks like a party…nothing like our usual breakfasts. Is there some occasion of which I am unaware?”

“Papa said he treasures us and we deserve the best,” Emilie says, pouring more maple syrup on her already soaked slices of fried bread.

“He did say that,” Henry says, swallowing the bite he just took. “I never had bread like this before, so being a treasure is okay with me.” His always infectious smile, made more charming by a missing front tooth, inspires a laugh from the entire group.

“And did he help all of you dress as well?”

Henry shakes his head, he is wearing the new sailor suit he received for his birthday. Despite now having an armoire of his own for the new clothing acquired over the past three years, the sailor suit is his favorite. “No, Mam Christine, I picked this out.”

“You always wear that outfit,” Gustave laughs. “The only time you wear something else is when it is in the wash or when you go to bed.”

“I like it,” Henry sticks out his tongue at the older boy. Since he is older and considerably taller, Gustave now wears clothing more suited to grown men – having left short pants and tunics behind. Conservative, like his father, his is understated in gray pants and a white cotton club collar shirt.

When Christine looks at all of them, she sees family – everyone fits. Henry and Margaret’s coloring favors her – even if the twins’ hair is a bit lighter and their skin more florid. Emilie is the one set apart at this gathering, although Joshua shares the black hair – if not the golden eyes. Those belong only to Erik and his natural born daughter.

“He told us he wanted us to look nice for our Maman,” Gustave tells her. “Said we should take more care in the morning – that messy hair and ill-matched garments have no place at the breakfast table.”

“Goodness, I wonder what brought all this about.”

“He is acting funny,” Emilie says, continuing to focus on her food. While the other children tend to wear bright and cheerful looks, even when they are sitting still – Emilie eyes everyone with a skepticism unusual in a six-year-old.

_“She is an old soul,” Madame Larushka, the fortune teller at Phantasma told Christine she first saw the child as an infant. “She knows things and you must always trust her judgment about other people. She can read their intentions.”_

Christine is not so certain of that – the little girl has been spoiled by both her and Erik. Partly because of her beauty and her wiles – neither of them deny she is gifted at manipulating both of them – but Christine’s miscarriage, the loss of Belle, make her all the more precious to them. Her daughter does come up with some amazing statements on occasion, so perhaps, Madame L is not far wrong.

After so many years traveling with Pappa across Europe, Christine is wise enough to not question the words of the gypsies and other fortune tellers. Truth be told, her father turned out to a bit of a mystic himself when he told her about an Angel of Music. She doubts he would have suspected Erik to be an angel any more than she did, but Pappa was very trusting of universal good and would never believe his daughter could be harmed by an angel he sent for her. Oh, Pappa, what you did not know about your angel. What would you think of your granddaughter?

Gustave, for all his attempts to discipline his little sister, is also under her spell. After so many years of being referred to as Master Gustave or young sir or simply Gustave – the pronouncement that his name was really Goose won him over. Gus might have saved him some ribbing from the other boys at school, Gus being a more acceptable nickname, but Goose was preferable to the very formal and European sounding Gustave. Introduced to Gustave as Goose by Emilie, with young Joshua now joining in, Gustave relished his nickname and even introduced himself as Goose Saint-Rien as often as not.

When the twins joined the family – they brought a down-to-earth quality to the family, grounding them all with their plain-spokenness. What Erik, Christine and Miss Fleck could determine was their parents were farmers who lost their land. They left the children at the orphanage not out of upset for the fact the twins were midgets, but because they could no longer care for them. 

Over time, the twins revealed the conditions they lived in…the lack of food and the systematic sale of the farm animals and furniture from the house. One day before dawn, their mam and pap handed each of them a sack with a set of clothing, a toy…Margaret’s doll and Henry’s ball…and a Bible, then loaded them in the wooden cart. Their goat sold left their father to pull while Mam and the children rode to a large house they never saw before. They were told good people would be taking care of them and to not be afraid. _“We love you both so much and we want you to be happy and well cared for.”_ The last words spoken before the couple drove off.

The boy and girl had none of the fears of children who had been criticized or punished in any way for who they were, if anything they were exceptionally well adjusted and loving children. They were just poor.

Despite the efforts to search for the family, based on those and other recollections by Henry – describing the house and their land, the parents could not be located and no one in the town where the orphanage was located had ever seen Henry or Margaret. The people who ran the orphanage, knowing of the Lilliputian Village contacted Dreamland and the children were picked up the day of the fire.

This was the family seated at the breakfast table eating French toast prepared by their adored, if absent, Papa or Pap Erik as Henry and Margaret call him.

“And so, Miss Emilie, did your _funny_ Papa say why he was going to Phantasma without taking any of us with him?”

“Nooo, but I think he is sad.”

“Gustave?”

“I agree, Maman.”

“So if we were to put this to a vote, you believe Papa is unhappy about something.”

All the children nod their heads vigorously.

“I must agree,” Christine says. “He has been particularly quiet these days, which we all know is not like Papa at all.”

Nadir and Erik work well together, despite their ever-present bickering. Darius coming on board as a counselor for the “freaks.” Work often proved too much or some customers treated them with less than respect, so having someone to go to, even to blow off steam was very successful. Darius’ prosthetic hand gave him additional credibility. Everyone commented on his compassion. Abuse of alcohol and drugs was almost unheard of now. Squelch and Dr. Gangle took responsibility for overseeing the carnival performers and Adele managed the theater. Despite the success of Phantasma, far surpassing what any of the adults hoped or suspected, Erik was not as enthusiastic as some might expect.

“I think I might know what is wrong,” Gustave says getting up from his seat – running from the room. “Hold on a minute.”

“Mam – would you like some tea?” Margaret asks, lifting the cozy from the tea pot to pour Christine a cup, pushing the sugar bowl and creamer toward her.

“Papa prepared this, too?”

The little girl nods. “I was up before everyone else – even Helen. Pap Erik was in the kitchen getting everything together, so I helped him.”

“What did you talk about?”

“He just said how wonderful it was we have such a happy family, then asked if there was a special song I liked in the show.”

“And is there?”

“I told him I liked Bathing Beauty because Maizie got to wear all those different costumes,” she says. “I love costumes.”

“And what did he say?”

“He laughed and said _Oh, no_. Then he began to sing the song to me and asked me to join him and do the dance,” she shrugs, “And so I did.”

“That must have been fun.”

“Yes, sort of, but then he got all sad like and told me he wrote an opera once and other beautiful music.”

“I see,” Christine says, reaching across the table to squeeze the girl’s hand.

“Papa is sad about music,” Emilie says taking another bite of toast.

“He told you that?”

“No, he just is.”

“Yes, I was hoping I was mistaken, but, you are right.”

Gustave returns to the room, holding a sheaf of papers. He waves them in the air before handing them to his mother. “I found these in the trash.”

“In Papa’s office?”

“No.” His response out of his mouth almost before Christine finishes her question. “I am not allowed his office when he is not there – these were in the bin by the furnace.”

Christine sifts through the papers. “These are songs – or one long piece.” Looking more closely, she shakes her head. “No, these are not simple songs, this here appears to be an aria.” She sings a few of the notes. “This is lovely – sad, but lovely. Why would he throw this away?”

Not meeting her eyes, the eldest son shrugs. “That is why I saved them.”

“I think I must speak to your Papa.”

Emilie nods solemnly.

“Well, if our family fortune teller agrees, then the talk must take place as soon as possible.”

The consensus of smiles around the table convinces Christine talking is the best tack to take.

“Are you going to the park today, Gustave?”

“Yes – Nadir will be picking me up in…” he turns around to look at the Ormolu clock…”fifteen minutes.”

Dabbing her mouth with a napkin, she rises from her seat taking the music with her. “Wait for me – I shall quickly dress my hair and meet you outside.”

“We shall wait,” Gustave says as Christine leaves the room. “Now the rest of you, finish your food and put your dirty dishes on the tray.”

The sound of the door opening startles Erik. No one except Adele is supposed to know he is here. Why cannot people just leave him alone for even a short while? Solitude is a distant memory – years of being alone…isolated…vanished and…surprisingly missed from time to time. This being one of them.

Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wipes his eyes before grabbing his wig and mask from the top of the piano, putting them back on. “Who is there?” he growls, getting to his feet. “I instructed Madame Giry to tell everyone I was not to be bothered. Can none of you follow instructions?”

“Only your wife, whom you left abandoned in her bed this morning without saying good-bye,” Christine retorts, coming out of the shadows. “I thought you had given up that practice.”

Erik grunts before closing his eyes and shaking his head, “What?” Her allusion to a time years before escapes him for a moment. Why would she think of that? Was she aware of the brief moment he gave thought to his lack of seclusion? Was he that transparent? “I am sorry – of course you are always welcomed.” Instead of walking toward her, however, he returns to his place on the piano bench.

Christine continues across the expanse of the Eyrie, taking off her cloak and bonnet as she walks, leaving them and her reticule on the settee.

“The breakfast you made was wonderful – the children really enjoyed the treat and having their Papa take care of them.” As she nears the piano, she stops short, not approaching him, standing to one side as she would if performing.

“I had a restless night and the kindest thing I thought to do was allow you a peaceful sleep and give the children a treat.”

“It was not long ago would you have simply locked yourself in the music room and played the piano until it would seem your fingers would bleed,” Christine says, setting the papers Gustave found on the piano’s frame, resting her folded hands on top of them. “The Erik of those days would not have thought what might be kind.”

His shoulders fall, he rests his elbows on the fallboard, holding his head in his hands. “No, I suppose I would have damned and cursed everyone and believed the world a horrible place. Now I know better.”

“Erik, for goodness sake, what is wrong?”

“I wish I knew,” he says, looking up at her, the tears visible in the amber eyes. Taking off his mask, he again wipes his eyes.

“Do you think you might be too happy?”

“What?”

“You have been so full of self-hatred your entire life – maybe you feel you do not deserve it – you are waiting for the gods to rain down some sort of punishment for all the goodness in your life – including your own goodness.”

“Maybe they have.”

“Oh, my darling man, what has you in this state?” Christine says, leaving her place at the side of the piano, joining him on the bench, taking him into her arms.

“I feel an emptiness – as I did all those years ago when you were still in Paris and Phantasma was just opening.”

The long days and nights creating the park helped him forget Christine for moments and even hours at a time. Too much work to do – the automatons, hiring staff, creating rides and other features…and writing songs. Songs – trashy, simple songs. No one wanted elegance and beauty…just happy-go-lucky ditties they could hum as they left the theater. When he had the idea to entice Christine to come to New York, he had to write something magnificent – she would become his muse again and the aria came to life – along with his spirit.

Cocking her head, she says, “Continue.”

“I have lost my music and…”

“And?”

“I fear I might lose you…”

“What?”

“I fear you will grow tired of me…of the music you are singing – modern melodies – nothing to challenge you.”

“I suppose there is some truth to what you say.”

“I knew it,” he moans.

“Stop. I meant about the music – the songs I sing now,” She says, slapping his knee. “I shall never grow tired of you or our life together. Neither of us had a normal life – now we do and maybe, maybe, we are a little complacent – missing the imbalance of being nomads with only music to ground us.”

“There must be something about depression and anger and hating the world that stimulates my creativity because now, when I am blissful most of the time, I find I cannot write. Melodies are no longer struggling to be born.”

“That is why you came here alone today?”

He nods. “Even by bringing my workshop above the ground, you have to admit it is quite dark and dreary up here.”

“I have noticed that, yes,” Christine says smiling, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I want to write something big – important – not just trivia like _Bathing Beauty.”_

“People love that song. Little Margaret told us you sang and danced with her today.”

The first smile since her arrival crosses his face. “She is quite adorable.”

“I know that is not enough – you said yourself when you finished _Don Juan Triumphant_ you would die…and I suppose, in a way, you did. You are not the same man who wrote that opera.”

“But another opera? Since then I have only written one aria?”

Getting up again, Christine retrieves the sheaf of papers Gustave gave her. “What about this?”

Taking the sheets from her, he frowns. “Where did you get these?”

“Gustave found them in the trash bin…to be burned in the furnace.”

He riffles through the music in his hand saying, “This was a false start – something I tried to write when Raoul was here talking about that book – _The_ _Phantom of the Opera_ – I wanted to write the truth – it became too painful.”

“The song is beautiful.”

Smoothing the papers, he looks at the music more closely. “I wrote this for you…and your father.” Sifting through the other pages, putting the sheets in order. “There is a violin introduction…ah, here it is.”

“About my Pappa?”

He hands her some of the pages. “These have some lyrics, such as they are…I never finished.”

Christine sings:

_Wishing you were_

_Somehow here again_

_Wishing you were_

_Somehow near_

_Sometimes it seemed_

_If I just dreamed_

_Somehow you would_

_Be here._

“Oh, Erik, do you have more? You did not burn it…tell me you did not burn it.”

“I dreamed of you singing like that again.” Shaking his head, he says, “No – I have too much ego. The score, such as I have written is at home – I do not know how this wound up in the trash, though.”

“Gustave.”

“He was going through my music. He knows better.”

“As he informed me when I asked where he found this song.”

“I am not certain how I should feel – he disobeyed me – invaded my privacy,” Erik says. “How can I be angry – this is a gift, although I am not certain I can take this up again.

“You told me it took you over twenty years to write Don Juan Triumphant.”

“Since I attached my death to the completion of the work, I felt there was no rush,” he manages a laugh. The anxiety gripping him begins to lessen and a calm settles in. This woman has always had an effect on him – be it calming or exciting – whatever he needed at the moment, she provided.

“I should like to see more of this work…and have you finish this aria.”

“What about Gustave?”

“Snooping and lying are not good habits.”

“I am not certain I am the appropriate person to punish him for those misdeeds – I should not think such behaviors were hereditary, but…”

Christine laughs. “He has more courage than I do – I supposed you would tell me at some point what was bothering you.”

“Was it that obvious?”

“You have always been a man of passion, but I…we all…sensed you were missing something – something none of us could give you. Gustave, being so like you, suspected what it was…music. You know how unbelievably cranky he becomes when he cannot play.”

“I am not certain going back to something I abandoned is the answer.”

“Perhaps not, but you will not know until you experiment. The season is over, everything is being handled. Think of it as priming the pump,” she says, kissing him on the cheek. “You must finish this song for me, however. That is one thing I must insist upon.”

“I shall – hearing you sing just now…”

The sound of rain drops on the skylights draws their eyes – the sky has blackened, the clouds ever deepening shades of gray, streaks of lightening flash followed by clashes of thunder – a vibrant timpani concerto.

“It appears we shall be confined here for a while – the towncar is at the hotel.”

Her gaze travels to their room, their private space before moving to the Bay Ridge house.

Erik’s eyes track hers. “You are a vixen as well as being a wise and wonderful woman.”

“I forgot how wonderful it is to be with you alone – we must come back here more often,” she says, rising from the bench, holding out a hand to him. “The perfect place to spend a rainy afternoon.”

Standing up, he sweeps her into his arms. “Thank you for seeking me out.”

“It would seem to be my role in life…one I accept with pleasure.”

“I shall try to do better.”

“Just be yourself, my husband, you do not have to perform for me.”

“My muse.”

“My maestro.”


End file.
